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PATRICK DUNBAR 

OR 

W hat came of a il Personal 
in the Times n 

A NOVEL 


BY 

John Pennington Marsden 

)> 


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Hallowell Co., Ltd. 

PHILADELPHIA 

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Copyright 1909 , by 
John Pennington Marsden 





PATRICK DUNBAR 


CHAPTER I. 

Mahomet, on his way to the seventh heaven to commune 
with Allah, speaks of having met about midway in the 
ascent, say about the fourth or fifth heaven, an angel with 
seventy thousand heads, each head having seventy thou- 
sand mouths, each mouth seventy thousand tongues, each 
tongue speaking seventy thousand different languages ; and 
all praising Allah. 

Now, barring any allusion to its habitat, or to its being 
an angel, or to its being in the habit of ever praising 
anybody, what in the world tallies with this description 
so well as a modern newspaper? God only knows how 
many heads a newspaper has, it is true; as any one will 
say who has ever tried to find a responsible one, either 
to sue or to break for an indiscretion of any kind. As to 
its mouths or its tongues, or its ability to speak all the 
languages in existence, to say nothing of the dead ones, 
Mahomet’s description, if anything, falls short of, rather 
than exceeds the truth, as applied to a newspaper. 

Patrick Dunbar was seated in the coffee room of an 
old fashioned London hotel on the evening of the 24th 
of December, 1875, ministering to three of the principal 
requirements of modern life, at oner and the same time, 
to wit: he was smoking a cigar, imbibing at intervals a 
drop of Scotch and water and he was carelessly casting 
his eye over a copy of The Times newspaper. Suddenly 
his gaze became intently fixed upon the paper, as he read 
the following, under the heading of “Personal:” 


6 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


Descendants or relatives of Patrick Dunbar, formerly of Cork, 
Ireland, who is supposed to have emigrated to America, in or 
about the year 1825, will hear something to their possible ad- 
vantage by communicating with Messrs. Griggs & Dobson, Solici- 
tors, 56 Theobald’s Road, London, W. C. 

Now, as it happened, the Patrick Dunbar with whom 
we have to deal was a descendant of William Dunbar, who 
once had a brother Patrick, who may, or may not, have 
ever lived in Cork, or who may, or may not, have emigrated 
to America. For the rest, our young friend Dunbar — for 
he was young, twenty-five or thereabouts — had lost his 
father and had been turned out into the world early in 
life with a mother and two sisters to care for, who, how- 
ever, had between them a small income of several hundred 
pounds a year. 

Dunbar had up to this time so far succeeded in push- 
ing his way in the path he had laid out for himself, or 
which, more properly speaking, destiny had laid out for 
him, as, at the time our story opens, to have risen to the 
dignity of a stock broker’s clerk in the City, with an 
emolument of some two hundred pounds a year. So, 
taking the things of this world as they go, the Dunbars 
were comfortably enough off to require no assistance or 
commiseration from us, or any one else. They lived at 
Putney, fairly well out in the country, in a small villa, 
standing in its own grounds; of which the ladies of the 
family were extremely proud, and which they kept in 
apple-pie order. 

At the City end of the line Dunbar was to be found in 
the vicinity of Billiter Square in a modern, well-appointed 
building, as London offices go. His employers were Messrs. 
Strongwell & Co., stock brokers, promoters and general 
agents in the American trade. They also did a bit of dis- 
counting, apparently had means; and their Bankers, the 
London and Provincial Bank, were always ready to make 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


7 


answer to inquiries: “Highly respectable people. Have 
been with us for many years. Good for all engagements.” 
They also had an account with the Bank of England. 

So far, so good; and now to explain how young Dunbar 
happened to be in the coffee-room of a hotel, on Christmas 
eve, rather than in the bosom of his family, as he should 
have been. Dunbar was ambitious. He had seen enough 
of the world to recognize the power the possession of wealth 
bestows upon a man. He was clever, industrious, even 
hard-headed, for a man of his years ; and he was beginning 
to rebel against the trammels of service. He wished above 
all things to be independent; to strike out for himself. 
Now, of all places in the world, London is the most diffi- 
cult to strike out in successfully. It’s the principle of not 
going near the water until you know how to swim, over 
again. No body in London knows you are alive until 
your name has been in the Directory at least five years; 
but, if you’ve starved to death long before the five years 
come round, what earthly good does it do to have it there ? 
Then again, to do business in a rich town like London, 
one must have capital; and unless he has earned it in 
business how could he get it, and how can he have done 
business, when it took at least five years to find out that 
he was alive, and, in the meantime he has starved? And 
so on, ad captandum, et ad infinitum! 

It is an incontrovertible fact, however, that people do 
get on in London. How they ever do it, God only knows; 
but they do. The five years that it requires to get a knowl- 
edge of your existence into the heads of any people whom 
it would do you the least good in the world to have it get 
into, come round at last, and, somehow, the fifth and 
last year generally finds one in a fair state of health, all 
things considered; and then you go on and on and become 
in time respectable, rich, great, and all the rest of it; as 
Dick Whittingdon and many others have done. 


8 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


Now it had got into young Dunbar’s head that, possibly, 
he might save a part of his five years hibernation by be- 
ginning to form acquaintances and connections which 
would be valuable to him later in life, while still acting 
as clerk for Messrs. Strongwell & Co. But, as he was a 
perfectly right-minded young man, he recognized the fact 
that in business hours his time belonged to the firm who 
were paying for it, and not to himself. After four o’clock, 
when the office closed on week-days, and one o’clock on 
Saturdays, his time was his own, and instead of using it 
by returning home he had elected to devote it to meeting 
certain men of his acquaintance in the coffee-room of the 
hotel where we first discovered him a few pages back. Here 
they discussed business, or possible business, and consumed 
a moderate amount of whisky and tobacco at one and the 
same time. As Dunbar was no longer a boy, and as he 
was, both by nature and education, abstemious and refined, 
there was nothing to be feared from either the whisky 
or the company in which it was absorbed. He had passed 
at Harrow and at Oxford the period in a young man’s 
life when, if dissipation of any kind was to take hold upon 
him, it had already done so. 

So, on the evening alluded to, Dunbar had, partly from 
the force of habit, and partly on the off chance of meeting 
some one of his friends, stopped at the Craven Hotel on 
his way west, and all unconsciously, and unexpectedly to 
himself, got put into this book by the accident of his 
eye having fallen upon the advertisement in the copy 
of The Times , aforesaid. So, there is the explanation 
of the matter; or, as the French would say, voila tout! 

The more he thought the matter over, and the oftener 
he read the notice, the more firmly the young man became 
convinced that in some mysterious way the incident was 
to mark a very decided turn in his life. To show how 
well this assumption was grounded now becomes not only 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


9 

a duty, but a pleasure, on the part of the faithful historian 
of the Life and Adventures of Patrick Dunbar. 

Deeply absorbed in his own thoughts, the hero of this 
story failed to observe that the door of the coffee-room 
now opened to admit a young man of about his own age, 
well appointed in every way, and with the springy but 
firm tread that only a long practice of out door sports 
imparts to the well-bred Englishman. He was a hand- 
some, broad-shouldered, well-knit young fellow, with a 
clean shaven face, and with an expression on it, which, if 
genuine, denoted honesty, intelligence and simplicity, com- 
bined in about equal proportions. 

“Hello, Dunbar,” he said, cheerily, taking a seat, and 
ringing the bell for the purpose of ordering some liquid 
refreshment. “What’s up? You seem to take as much 
interest in your paper as if it contained an obituary notice 
of an aunt who had just left you a fortune. I say, old 
man, if it’s anything good, don’t forget that we are 
partners, for you know the present state of my finances, 
and Christmas bills are coming in so fast that I am a jolly 
sight more comfortable in the coffee-room of this hotel 
than I am at my lodgings, just at present.” 

“How did you happen to think of an obituary notice, 
Gow?” asked Dunbar, laying down his paper, and relight- 
ing his cigar. “Curiously enough, you’ve come pretty nigh 
hitting the nail on the head. Listen to this: The heirs 
of Patrick Dunbar, whom I have every reason to suppose 
was an uncle of mine, are advertised for. Do you happen 
to know anything of a firm of solicitors in Gray’s Inn, 
Griggs and Dobson?” 

“Rather; they’re my solicitors.” 

“The devil they are. Pretty respectable kind of peo- 
ple?” 

“So so.” 


10 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


“Tell me about them, will you?” 

“Well, as the term goes, they’re respectable enough. 
They’ve been in that damned dull old office of theirs, in 
Theobald’s Road, just overlooking Gray’s Inn Yard, for 
God knows how long; I certainly don’t. They’ve got 
money, or their clients have, for they are always looking 
about for a chance to pick up a good thing. They do a lot 
in reversions, post obits, occasionally, and a devilish big 
business in bills of rather the dickey kind. They’ve got 
my name at this very time on a biggish lot of paper, both 
as drawer and acceptor ; much bigger, in fact, than I wish 
it were.” 

“You should keep your name off bills, Gow, as I’ve often 
told you. It will get you into serious trouble some of these 
days if you don’t.” 

“All very well for you to talk, old man, but look at the 
difference in our positions. You and your people have a 
certain fixed income, small, we’ll say, but sure. You’re 
a rising young man in a good City firm, with everything 
in your favor for a partnership some of these days, I dare 
say. Your wants are small and you’ve been brought up, 
well, no offence, of course, in a moderate kind of a way, 
so that its no trouble for you to live within your in- 
come.” 

“While you?” 

“While I’ve been damnedly badly brought up, I’m per- 
fectly free to confess. My father always led me to suppose 
that I should be well provided for after his death, and, 
poor old dad, he had every reason to. But fate settled 
the matter differently. It’s a long story and I won’t tell 
it now; but, instead of being well-to-do in the world, I 
was left in the most unfortunate fix possible. With all 
the habits and tastes of a rich man, I’m a poor one; and, 
if there’s anything worse than that , why I, for one, don’t 
happen to know what it is.” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


II 


“Yes, old man, it is an unfortunate state of affairs, but 
then you have much upon your side, after all. You’ve 
lots of friends, a fairish allowance from your father’s 
estate, good credit at your Bankers, and a devilish sound 
head on your shoulders to judge of a good bargain when 
you see one. So, take it for all and all, you’re not so very 
much to be pitied, as far as I can see.” 

“Very well, Pat, have it your own way. There’s no one 
in the world so badly off, I suppose, but that he might 
be worse; but, jack that up for the time being, and let’s 
look into this matter of yours. It sounds interesting. I 
haven’t the least doubt in the world that we could raise a 
few hundreds, possibly a few thousands, from Griggs and 
Dobson on your prospects. That would go a long way to- 
wards helping me over Christmas, and leave something for 
us to put into the business besides.” 

“Upon my word, Gow, you are a cool hand to count my 
chickens before they’re hatched,” said Dunbar, laughing 
and picking up the paper to put it in his friend’s hands. 
“There’s the notice, read it for yourself.” 

“Um,” said Gow, after having carefully read the adver- 
tisement. “Seems pretty clear, I should say. You are 
certainly Patrick Dunbar. You know whether you ever 
had an uncle or grandfather of the same name, and whether 
he lived at Cork, and went from there to the States. Even 
if you’re not prepared to prove every step in the line of 
succession, the presumptive evidence of your being the 
man they are looking for is so strong that, unless some 
one else turns up with a stronger claim than yours, which 
appears unlikely, you certainly ought to be able to estab- 
lish your title.” 

“I fear it will not be quite as clear sailing as you appear 
to think it,” said Dunbar, contemplatively. “You see, a 
lot of time has elapsed; fifty years. In a half a century 
many changes have occurred, many records have vanished 


12 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


entirely, or have been mislaid. I remember to have heard 
my father say on several occasions that his family had 
at some time lived in Ireland. Just in what part, I don’t 
know. Yon see, I suppose he was either a little ashamed 
of his Irish connections or he saw no good in bringing 
them to the fore. I remember, however, his having spoken 
of a brother Patrick. All the rest of my knowledge in the 
matter is rather hazy. Not the kind of evidence, I fear, 
upon which such knowing old cards as you picture Mes- 
sieurs Griggs and Dobson to be would advance much 
money, if indeed, there is an estate coming either to me 
or some namesake of mine.” 

“Pm not at all so sure of that, old man. These old 
style solicitors make money by handling money. It’s as 
plain as the nose on your face that, they being the cus- 
todians of the estate, couldn’t speculate with it; while, 
it is equally clear, that if it were in the hands of its proper 
owner, we’ll say yours, for the sake of argument, they both 
could and would, in all probability, have the management 
of it, and thus be in a position where they could pull in 
many a fat fee or commission from it. See?” 

“Yes, that seems reasonable enough. But how am I to 
prove my claim? What have I to go by? Of course, my 
mother may be able to throw some light upon the ma,tter, 
but I fear not much. Now, old chap, put yourself in my 
place and advise me what to do ; how to open negotiations 
with Griggs and Dobson, to begin with. Of course, I shall 
ask you for a letter of introduction to them, which will 
help amazingly, as through it they will know with whom 
they have to deal. What is my next step?” 

Gow was silent a few minutes, as if engaged in think- 
ing the matter carefully over. 

“Of course,” he said, finally, “it would be well for you 
to go to these foxy old lawyers armed with as much in- 
formation as possible, in the first instance. Aren’t there 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


13 

any records, for instance, in Cork which it would be well 
for you to look up?” 

“What records, will you be good enough to tell me, 
are likely to exist of the fact of a poor young man having 
emigrated to America from Ireland fifty years ago ? Why, 
man, millions have emigrated since then, and how many 
of these millions, think you, have left any trace or record 
whatever of their former lives, either before they left the 
old country or after they had arrived in the new ? I might 
much better go to America, and begin my inquiries there , 
it appears to me, rather than in Ireland; but even that is 
a wild goose chase.” 

“It occurs to me, Pat, that something might be done 
by shifting the burden of proof from your shoulders on 
to those of Griggs and Dobson. Why not go to these men 
assuming the position that you are the man they are 
looking for, which you can do with a good conscience, as 
you certainly believe yourself to be the man, and put them 
to the proof that you are not. In the absence of any one 
to contest your title, and with the undoubted respectability 
of your connection, it seems to me your claim would be a 
very strong one and one very difficult to disprove. It’s 
worth trying at any rate, and possibly Griggs and Co. may 
put you in the way of obtaining some information which, 
putting it together with what you already have, would be 
of great assistance to you.” 

“Not at all a bad idea, old man, and Pll follow your 
suggestion. First of all, Pll get all the facts I can from 
my mother; then Pll ask you for your letter, and then 
Pll beard these lions in their den and see what they have 
to say for themselves. So, sit down and write me a line 
to these people, or send me one from your lodgings so I 
may have it within, say a week. We’ll give Griggs & 
Co. a few days to get over their Christmas in, and then 
I’ll go and look them up.” 


14 


PATRICK DURBAR 


“And, instead of giving you. a letter, Dunbar, 111 go with 
you myself. Fm sure I can say many things viva voce 
which I could not say in a letter. So, name your date 
for the visit, and 111 meet you, and well go together.” 

“Thanks, Gow; I think myself that is the better way. 
Say next Thursday, at eleven o’clock. I will ask my people 
in the City for an hour or two’s leave of absence and we’ll 
see what there is in this matter.” 

The two young men then lapsed into a general discus- 
sion of their affairs and soon separated, each going in the 
direction of their respective homes. Dunbar took the 
underground at Charing Cross Station for Putney; Gow 
leisurely sauntered up Cockspur Street and the Haymarket 
to Piccadilly, apparently deeply lost in thought. The fog 
of a winter’s night in London was thickening up as it is 
likely to do when some six million of people are preparing 
their evening meals. Gow passed Piccadilly Circus with 
its blaze of light struggling through the fog, its bustle 
and confusion, its painted women, its hurrying crowds 
of Christmas shoppers, its jumble of busses and cabs, 
its well trained policemen doing their very best to regu- 
late the traffic, and succeeding about as well as could be 
expected under the circumstances. His road lay through 
Piccadilly to Dover Street, where he had his lodgings. 
Suddenly a thought seemed to strike him. He stopped, 
and looking at his watch by the aid of an electric light, 
he said half audibly: “Six-thirty. Post Office, Waterloo 
Place, open till seven. Just time enough to send a wire.” 

He turned sharply in his tracks, and setting his face in 
the direction from which he had just come, soon found 
himself in the Branch Post Office in Waterloo Place. Half 
an hour afterwards a message was delivered at Chiselhurst, 
to one Samuel Dobson, Solicitor, of Gray’s Inn, which ran 
as follows : 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


*5 


“Very important for me to see you at once. Wire me my lodg- 
ings, Dover street, when and where.” S. Gow. 

This done, the young man resumed his walk to his home, 
where, presumably, he found his dinner waiting for him. 

Dunbar arrived at Putney Bridge in due time, and, 
finding the fog rather thick, took a cab to his home, where 
he found his mother and sisters expecting his arrival, and 
his dinner waiting. After the discussion of the meal by 
the family, he had a smoke ; and then, managing to get his 
mother by herself, asked: “M other, what can you tell me 
about my father’s relatives. Wasn’t there an uncle Pat- 
rick who lived in Cork, or somewhere in Ireland, and 
who went to America many years ago?” 

“I have always supposed so, my son. Why do you ask ?” 

Dunbar had purchased a copy of The Times at the book 
stall of the underground, and now, pointing to the notice, 
requested his mother to read it. When she had done so, 
he asked her what she thought of it. 

“Well Padsey, if you really want to know, I don’t think 
the notice applies to us.” 

“Will you tell me why?” 

“Well, in the first place, it’s too good to be true. No 
such luck as an inheritance has ever befallen our family. 
Then, the Dunbars, although always highly respectable, 
have never been more than fairly well off. Your poor 
father enjoyed a comfortable income for the greater part 
of his life and was able to bring his children up as ladies 
and gentlemen; but, at his death, to leave his family only 
fairly well provided for. If he had expectations of any 
kind I feel sure he would have spoken to me of them, as 
one of his chief sorrows was the slender provision he was 
able to make for us. He never took into consideration 
the fact that he had spent a very large part of the means 
he might have left his family in the education of yourself 


i6 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


and your sisters. Now, as to his relatives, he rarely spoke 
of them. I am inclined to think that when they lived in 
Ireland they were rather poor. Also, I have an impression 
that his brother Patrick was something of a mauvais sujet. 
At any rate, what became of him, I really never knew ; and 
I feel quite sure your father did not.” 

“You don’t know where they lived in Ireland?” 

“No, not absolutely; but my impression is it was near 
Cork.” 

“Well, mother, as far as our information goes, I must 
say it tallies pretty well with the particulars given of 
Patrick Dunbar in this notice. ‘Lived at Cork. Supposed 
to have emigrated to America in or about the year 1825/ ” 

“Yes, my son, but that is very little to go on in claiming 
an estate, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, but I hope to get more.” 

“Padsey, my dear boy, we have enough to live upon. 
You are doing well and are in a fair way to do better. In 
order to prove your claim to an inheritance, with the very 
slender knowledge you have of your father’s relations, it 
seems to me a very large sum would have to be spent in 
lawyers’ fees and in investigating this matter, generally. 
Wouldn’t it be wiser to let well enough alone?” 

“Mother, something tells me this notice refers to us, 
and that it would be a fatal error on our part to allow it 
to pass unnoticed. In fact, I have already gone so far 
as to make an appointment to call upon the solicitors 
whose names appear at the bottom of the advertisement, 
and I can’t very well break it, even if I were so disposed, 
which I am frank enough to say I am not.” 

“Well, my boy, you are the head of the family, and I 
won’t stand in the way of your doing as you see fit 
in the matter. But don’t, I beseech you, do anything to 
involve us in litigation or in expense of any kind, for I 
feel sure you will regret it.” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


1 7 


“I will bear what you say in mind, mother, you may 
rest assured of that; both on your account and my own.” 

The young women now began to show signs of interest 
in the rather extended conversation between Patrick and 
his mother, and, as in the present status of affairs it was 
as well to excite no more hopes, possibly, probably, doomed 
to disappointment, than was necessary, the conversation 
was changed. That evening, however, after the rest of 
the family had retired for the night, young Dunbar took 
from his secretary a bundle of old papers which had be- 
longed to his father during his lifetime and began a 
thorough examination of them. At first there was little 
to reward his search, but finally he came upon some letters 
bearing date of about 1845 to 1850 in which he noticed 
the name of his uncle mentioned at rare intervals, but then 
only casually, and in a manner to throw but little light 
upon the subject he had set his mind to investigate. 

He was about to give over the search for the present, 
when his eye fell upon the signature of Patrick Dunbar 
at the end of a letter. As in all the letters and papers so 
far Patrick Dunbar had been referred to in the third 
person, the change to the first attracted his attention. 
It proved to be a letter dated New York, 1842. It was 
yellow and musty with age and seemed to have been left 
carelessly in a bundle of apparently unimportant letters 
to be forgotten. It ran as follows: 

Dear Brother William: — 

Luck has been against me again, and I’ve been compelled to 
draw upon you for £100. Of course you’ll remind me of my 
promise never to draw upon you again; that, and to let the liquor 
alone. I’ve done the best I could, but somehow I can’t help my- 
self. I can’t refuse to play when asked by certain people here 
without losing caste; and, as they all drink, I drink too. The 
only difference seems to be that I get drunk and lose both my 
head and my money, while they keep both. Of course you can 


2 


i8 


PATRICK DURBAR 


refuse to honor this draft; but, as I’ve had the money on it, if it 
comes back dishonored I shall be placed in a very unfortunate 
position. They have a disagreeable way of hanging people here 
who don’t pay their debts. In any case I should be compelled to 
leave town, and just as luck seems to be coming my way. Through 
Murphy, whom I’ve told you about, I’ve been let into some good 
speculations in land in this rapidly growing town. Of course, 
with my damnable luck I may never realize a dollar; but then 
my luck may turn. In order to secure you for all the moneys 
you have already advanced me, and this last hundred pounds, 
which I feel sure you will not refuse, I have made a will, which 
you will find on the page annexed to this letter, making you my 
sole legatee, in fact, my sole heir; as at present I have no near 
relatives but you. This will, though brief and somewhat informal, 
being drawn by myself, has been passed upon by a lawyer here, 
by name Donahue, who says it will hold water under the American 
laws. As I have nothing but debts to leave you at present, this 
document may appear to you as worth just about the paper it is 
written upon. But this is the country and the period for long 
chances, and who knows but that I may turn out a millionaire in 
the end? 

Your affectionate brother, 

Patrick Dunbar. 

Upon the back of this letter, as stated, was a will, in the 
same handwriting as the body of the letter, short and to 
the point, and informally drawn, as might be expected to 
be the case, when a man not a lawyer, was making his 
will, leaving “unto his dearly beloved brother William, of 
— near Cork, Ireland, each and every property of which 
he was seized or possessed, in consideration of moneys 
advanced to him at various times, his love and affection 
for said William Dunbar, and as some atonement for the 
trouble and anxiety he had caused the said William Dun- 
bar by reason of his wild and intemperate life.” The docu- 
ment was apparently in perfect order, and properly at- 
tested, as far as Dunbar could judge of such a matter. 


CHAPTER II. 


Just as Gow was leaving his lodgings in Dover Street 
on Christmas morning, a telegraphic message was handed 
him which read as follows : 

“Tuesday, my office, eleven o’clock.” 

Dobson. 

Christmas was not an agreeable day to Gow, this year. 
Besides the very marked contrasts it offered to former 
Christmases, which had been spent at his father’s home in 
the country amidst scenes of great festivity and rejoicing, 
he had come to an epoch in his financial affairs which 
gave him the greatest possible uneasiness. It is one thing 
to exceed one’s income; but that is a matter of adjust- 
ment. You overspend one year; you underspend the 
next, and the equilibrium is restored. But, with Gow, 
it was a different matter altogether : He had not only over- 
spent his income to a degree far past any possible read- 
justment, but he had involved himself, by dabbling in 
bills, to an extent which meant absolute ruin, unless the 
unexpected happened; and relief came from the most un- 
expected quarter. Dunbar had alluded to the fact of his, 
Gow^s, credit being good at his Bankers. Gow, as the re- 
sult of a good introduction, had managed to make a very 
good impression upon the manager of one of the west end 
branches of the London and Western Bank. Mr. Brown, 
the manager, lately promoted and anxious for business, 
had found in Gow an active and energetic ally in bring- 


20 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


ing in accounts of well-to-do young men, like himself, 
who could always be relied upon to keep at least a thousand 
or two to their credit, and not to demand much accommoda- 
tion. Unlike these young men, however, Gow did demand 
accommodation ; and, demanding it from the standpoint of 
a first-class introduction, which, in fact, almost amounted 
to a guaranty, and, as a return for the large business he 
had brought, he was particularly hard to refuse. Brown, 
a young man himself, with his way to make in the world, 
had gone on discounting bills for Gow, until, becoming 
somewhat uneasy at their increasing volume, and a certain 
similarity and other earmarks about them which to a 
Banker smelt of kite-flying, had finally tried to call a 
halt. This fact, together with his ever increasing demands 
for money, occasioned not only by his extravagant living, 
but by the heavy interest charges he had to pay to keep 
his kites well in the air, had induced Gow to seek other 
discounting facilities. Everyone at all conversant with 
financial matters in London knows that the moment a 
man begins to offer his paper outside of his own Bankers, 
the rate jumps with leaps and bounds into the forties, fif- 
ties, or sixties per cent., the nearer he approaches that last 
resource of the spendthrift and kiteflyer, the Jews. Gow 
had not quite reached this last stage yet; although the 
swiftness of his downward passage in that direction ought 
to have been a source of congratulation to the Jews. He 
had tried all the expedients known to the financial kite- 
flyer to keep his head above water. First, he had employed 
intermediaries to take his bills to other banks to be 
discounted in their names. This answered for a time, 
but each and every man who had accommodated him in 
this way soon came to him with similar requests on their 
own accounts. A lot of such bills, endorsed by himself, 
of which, however, he did not enjoy the proceeds, he had 
induced Brown to put to his credit. Brown, thinking him- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


21 


self safe in his reliance upon these new names, had done 
this to accommodate Gow, without reflecting that in this 
way he was really allowing this persistent young man to in- 
crease his obligation to the Bank. Brown, being young 
at the business, had probably not come to a realization 
of the fact that neither the newness of a name, nor the 
number of new names had very much to do with the ulti- 
mate payment of a bill. In the event of anything happen- 
ing to any one of the members of a kiting syndicate, the 
whole batch generally go down together. In this particular 
instance, he was even worse off than before, by reason of 
the new names, in that Gow having discounted these bills 
in return for the accommodation he had had from his 
friends, did not get the proceeds, and, consequently, could 
not apply them in liquidation of his own indebtedness to 
the Bank. 

By some chance, one of his bills had been offered to 
Griggs and Dobson. These gentlemen, knowing, or think- 
ing they knew, of Gow’s affairs, having for years been his 
father’s solicitors, pricked up their ears at this. 

“The young fool,” Dobson had said to his partner, “can’t 
have come to the end of his rope yet; and, by a little care 
and good management we can pick up a dollar or two be- 
fore the end comes.” 

“All right, go ahead,” was the laconic reply of Griggs, 
who was not a financier in the sense of knowing how to 
pick up money in the streets of London, as Dobson did; 
but who loved a sovereign, and was just as keen in his 
search for them as his partner, only he went at it in a 
different way. The result of this first transaction was 
that Gow soon found a demand for his bills springing up 
from an unknown source; unknown, because the inter- 
mediary who had opened the door for his discounting 
facilities at his own solicitors had not considered it his 
duty to inform him of the fact. Soon, however, the knowl- 


22 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


edge came to him, as a result of an inquiry on the part of 
Griggs and Dobson’s Bankers, and he took in the im- 
portance of the information, as viewed from the stand- 
point of his future financial career. 

One of Gow’s strong points, as a business man, was his 
apparent calmness and indifference; excellent things in 
a financier. He now assumed a stolid nonchalance, which 
he was far from feeling. When the outside broker who 
had tapped the money chest of Griggs and Dobson came to 
him for a fresh supply of bills, he pleaded a surplus of 
ready cash which precluded the possibility of his paying 
a high rate of interest for money: “He would oblige the 
broker’s client, whoever it might be, with some bills; but 
it must be at a fairly low rate of discount.” 

This attitude of Gow’s was duly reported to Dobson, 
and had its intended effect upon that astute financial 
gentleman. “Ah ha,” he said to himself, “the young man 
doesn’t need money; he only dabbles in bills to keep his 
name on the market in case of need. The young beggar 
must be better off than I thought him. Then, his Bank- 
ers speak well of him. Perhaps I’ve done him an injus- 
tice, and he’s a better risk than I took him to be.” 

At any rate, Dobson took the bills at a lower rate than 
he had paid for the last lot, and asked for more. Gow 
was wise enough to in no way interfere with his broker’s 
principals. Of course, he could have gone to Dobson 
now himself, and saved the commission he was paying his 
broker; but in doing so he would have exposed his weak- 
ness. Ho, he went on coolly and calmly signing bills, dis- 
counting them through his new channel, paying the money 
arising from these discounts into his Bank, keeping away 
from Brown, and promptly paying his acceptances as they 
came due; until Brown began to open his eyes. 

“Gow’s a better man than I thought him, evidently,” 
he said to himself, after this had gone on for some time. 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


23 


“Perhaps Fve been rather hard upon him — I notice he 
never comes to the Bank now. I wonder if he’s taking 
his friends elsewhere. I must look into this matter.” 

So he sent for Gow. The latter took his time in answer- 
ing the invitation, but at last dropped into the Bank. 

“What’s up, Gow?” demanded Brown, after an ex- 
change of the ordinary courtesies, “you never come to the 
Bank nowadays. Are you taking your friends somewhere 
else?” 

“No, Brown, I’m simply taking matters quietly, that’s 
all. No good in a fellow making a cart-horse of himself 
if he doesn’t have to, is there?” 

“No, I suppose not. But you’re not asking for any dis- 
counts lately, and your balance is running up, and you 
never come near us. You’re not offended with us, are 
you ?” 

“No, Brown, not exactly; but you know you were rather 
nasty with me some little time back when I needed money, 
and now that I don't need it, well, I can afford to take 
matters quietly. Some of these days, if in the meantime 
I don’t find bankers who appreciate me more than you 
do, we may be able to do some more business together ; but 
not now. Good day.” 

And he took his hat and leisurely sauntered out of the 
Sank. Brown watched him coolly walking away with all 
the emotions incident to a sense of possible injustice to a 
client, together with an absolute feeling of disappoint- 
ment at the loss of a paying customer. 

Gow allowed matters to go along as they were going 
until he had filled up Messrs. Griggs and Dobson with 
about as many of his bills as he thought they could con- 
veniently hold, and then relented towards Brown, by per- 
mitting him to have some, at the expense of Dobson, until 
the latter’s appetite returned; and so on, with a see-saw 
arrangement which worked admirably for a time, but 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


2 4 

which, like all other mundane things, came to an end 
at last. Both the Bank and Dobson had come to be 
seriously alarmed at Gow’s financial position, and it was 
but little consolation when, after comparing notes with 
each other, they found out the trick that had been played 
upon them by the fresh and innocent looking Gow. 

It was under the pressure incident to such a state of 
his affairs that Gow had welcomed anything that looked 
to him like a straw to be clutched at in the financial sea 
in which he was just then trying to prevent himself from 
sinking. Gow and Dunbar had discussed the matter of 
forming a firm at some not far distant day, in the event 
of Dunbar’s not being admitted to' partnership in the firm 
in which he was now serving as a clerk. Dunbar, al- 
though in many ways a good man of business, had that 
peculiarly English quality of taking a man a good deal at 
his estimate of himself. He had been a schoolmate of 
Dow’s at Harrow, and had subsequently met him at Ox- 
ford, although not in his own college. He had always 
liked the man, and went on liking him, probably from the 
force of habit, as very many of us do. Having never had 
relations with his friend in times of difficulty or danger, 
and being by nature an unsuspecting person, it had never 
occurred to him how easily misfortune may undermine a 
character otherwise frank and open, as he had always 
found Gow’s to be. In a vague way it had come to Dunbar 
of late that all was not well with his friend’s financial 
affairs. In fact, Gow, with his usual frankness, had told 
him so. But very frequently we become so accustomed 
to frankness as to discount it. This had been the case 
in the present instance. Dunbar had become so used to 
having his friend speak rather carelessly of the serious 
condition of his affairs, that, nothing ever having come 
of it, he paid no attention. 

There had been a certain design in this, as far as Gow 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


25 


was concerned, however, as there was in everything that 
young man did or left undone. One of Gow’s financial 
axioms was that there was nothing to be gained by ask- 
ing a favor of a man whom you knew to be absolutely 
unable to grant it. In doing so, you came no nearer to 
the object you had in view, and you exposed your weak- 
ness to a man who both could and would, in all probability, 
be better able to serve you if he felt you were strong, than 
if he knew you to be weak. With Gow, each and every 
friend he had was a pawn to be used for just what he was 
worth in the game he was playing, and not to be used until 
he was worth it. The time had come now, or he thought 
it had, for Dunbar to be used ; and his only care was to play 
his pawn in the most effective manner. 

On the appointed day, he walked into Dobson’s office, 
a few minutes late, designedly, as usual, with a view to not 
suggesting to the sharp old lawyer that he had a favor to 
ask. Dobson was seated in his old-fashioned office over- 
looking the black brick buildings of Gray’s Inn Yard, 
with the typical surroundings of the London solicitor. 
There was the respectful managing clerk to take your 
card in to the sanctum of his employer’s private office, 
the careful inspection of the visitor, half suspicious, half 
inquisitive, but wholly deferential, to all outward appear- 
ing. Once in the private office, there was the same old 
musty smell of parchment and the general deadness which 
had been creeping into the place for perhaps a hundred 
years. The same rack of black tin boxes marked in white 
letters with the names of men long since dead, or slowly 
dying, by reason of the lawn’s delay. Mr. Dobson, a large 
man, not altogether pleasant to look upon, was seated 
at his desk, and evidently in not the best of humors. 

“I say, young man,” he said, sharply, as soon as Gow 
had entered the room, and consulting his watch, “you 
have been keeping me waiting thirteen minutes, which, 


26 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


together with the fact that you have brought me up to 
town during Christmas week, which I had expected to 
spend in the country, can only be justified by some very 
important affair. Now, what is it?” 

Gow looked the picture of calm indifference. Con- 
temptuous indifference, perhaps, would describe it better. 
There is sometimes a strength in weakness and irre- 
sponsibility quite as baffling as the other kind. In the 
present instance Gow felt this kind of power in the very 
weakness of his financial position; and, as usual with him, 
was prepared to take advantage of it. 

“Dobson,” he answered, after waiting a minute to im- 
press upon the big fellow sitting opposite him how utterly 
impossible it was for him to assume any airs of superiority 
with him, “Dobson, how much paper of mine do you 
hold?” 

“I couldn’t tell to a thousand pounds, without looking 
at our books. What’s up? Nothing wrong, I hope?” 

“I don’t feel quite so sure of that, Dobson. I shall cer- 
tainly be compelled to ask for a renewal of pretty much 
all of my bills, unless some arrangement can be had. 
You see, you’ve injured my credit at my Bankers by your 
damned stupidity in calling upon them as you did. It 
would serve you right if you had to pay through the nose 
for it.” 

“For God’s sake don’t talk like that, Gow,” said the 
big man, evidently much alarmed. “My partner has 
absolutely refused to allow me to renew another bill for 
you. You see, I went into this business a good deal upon 
my own judgment, although I had his formal consent. 
From a small amount, it has crept up to a very large one ; 
much larger than I ever intended, and, I’m sorry to say, 
much larger than Griggs thinks it to be. Now, there 
mustn’t be any trouble over these bills, or I am a ruined 
man. There really mustn’t.” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


2 7 


“It didn’t occur to you, I suppose, that you were run- 
ning a great risk of ruining me when you called upon my 
Bankers ?” 

“Well, no. You see, you played a trick upon us in 
putting one of us against the other, until, as it stands now, 
we each of us, your Banker and our firm, hold many times 
as many of your bills as there ought to be in existence, all 
told.” 

Gow smiled cynically, as if rather enjoying than deny- 
ing the impeachment. “Yes,” he answered carelessly, “I 
met trickery with trickery; and I should do so again. 
The fact is, Dobson, instead of your having me on the 
hip, I have both you and Brown and your partner where 
I can come pretty near to dictating terms. Of course you 
can make a bankrupt of me; but, in doing so, you will 
come so near bankruptcy yourselves that it woudn’t pay. 
Am I right?” 

“By God, Gow, if that’s your little game, we won’t stop 
at making you a bankrupt; we’ll put you in considerable 
danger of standing in the dock at the Old Bailey. You’ve 
come altogether too near the edge of the criminal law to 
take the stand you are taking now.” 

“No threats, Dobson,” said Gow imperturbably. I’ll 
lay you a thousand pounds you’ll never even make me a 
bankrupt, let alone doing anything else. You can’t afford 
to, you see. There’s been altogether too much talk about 
defaulting solicitors already, you know. A breath of sus- 
picion, and away goes your credit, your money; because if 
you force me to the wall, you’ll lose every penny I owe 
you; and, finally, you'll stand a far greater chance of 
spending a few years in seclusion than I shall. You see, 
I’ve thought of all these things, as I always do, before I 
take chances.” 

“You’re a damned scoundrel, and all the worse scoundrel 


28 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


for the innocent appearance yon somehow manage to keep 
up .” 

“Part of the business, you know, Dobson,” returned 
Dow, smiling. “But thank you, just the same, for your 
good opinion. To be called sharp by a City of London 
sixty per cent, bill shyster is praise indeed. But, as we 
used to say at Oxford, ‘cui bono/ to whom for a good, is all 
this interchange of compliments. You know that I don’t 
want to be made a bankrupt any more than you want to 
make me one. As to the other thing, the talk of the Old 
Bailey, and Holloway, and so forth, that’s all bosh. You 
don’t mean it, and I know you don’t; so there you are. 
So, having come to a perfect understanding on this point, 
suppose we take a common-sense, practical view of our 
affairs. I owe you a lot of money, I don’t deny it; more 
than you should ever have lent me, knowing all about my 
family affairs, as you’ve done for years. You hinted just 
now at a criminal prosecution. In case, by any very re- 
mote chance, you brought one, the charge would be false 
representation. What devilish nonsense it is to talk like 
that. You have been my father’s solicitor for thirty-five 
to forty years, and know my affairs far better than I 
know them myself. It wouldn’t be possible for me to 
make any representations whatever to you; and you know 
it as well as I do.” 

“Very well, and what are you driving at?” 

“Dobson,” said Gow, looking his adversary full in the 
face to see whether the tactics he had adopted had prepared 
the way for what he had to say, “Dobson, as an old fash- 
ioned solicitor, up to every move on the board, it is need- 
less, absolutely needless to tell you what is sure to be 
the fate of a man who once gets into the way of mak- 
ing bills and raising the wind on them. The end is as 
sure to come as the final Judgment day is sure to come. 
You can put it off, and, on paper, can make a lot of 


PATRICK DURBAR 


29 


money in dealing with such a man. But what is the good 
of deceiving yourself, sharp old file, as you are ? What is 
the good of discounting a man’s bills at sixty or even 
eighty per cent., if the man is never going to pay them? 
Its like the Irish shoemaker who said ‘he’d ha’ charged 
the man double the price for the shoes, if he’d ha’ known 
he wasn’t going to pay for them.’ ” 

“For God’s sake, will you come to the point, Grow?” said 
the big man, angrily. 

Gow, satisfied that he had frightened his adversary now 
as much as he was likely to, concluded to come to the 
point, as requested. 

“The point is just this. Suppose I could throw a very 
good thing in your way, a very good thing indeed, would 
you, or would you not be disposed to take it as an offset 
to the payment of my bills?” 

“Why, yes, I suppose so,” answered Dobson, evidently 
interested, but also anxious. “In other words, you mean, 
I take it, that if you put me in the way of making a 
thousand pounds, I shall cancel an equal amount of your 
present indebtedness to me. Is that your proposition?” 

“Yes, that’s about it. But, suppose that by imparting 
some information to you by which you could not very 
well help making more money than I now owe you, why 
couldn’t we make one transaction of it: I give you the 
tip, you hand me back my bills?” 

“Well, I suppose we could, if the matter were genuine. 
But no more tricks, if you please, Mr. Gow. I’ve been 
fooled quite enough by a boy I used to pat on his head, 
back in his father’s days.” 

“Yes,” said Gow, laughing, “You’ve patted me on the 
head quite long enough, Dobson. You seem to forget 
that a boy sometimes grows to be a man.” 

“I shall bear it in mind, after my experience with you.” 
said Dobson, evidently repressing a smile at the humor 


30 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


of the whole situation. “But come, we’re wasting time. 
What’s your game?” 

“What’s this personal notice of yours in The Times?” 

“What is it?” asked Dobson, with a startled look, 
“why it’s just what it appears; we’re advertising for the 
heirs of one Patrick Dunbar. In what possible manner 
does this relate to our transactions with you?” 

“It would be money in your pocket to find the heir 
or heirs you are looking for, wouldn’t it?” 

“Um, yes; perhaps it would.” 

“No ‘perhaps’ about it. Would it, or would it not be 
good business for you to discover the heir to Patrick Dun- 
bar ?” 

“Well, then, yes, it would.” 

“Ah, I thought so. A very good thing, would it not?” 

“Well, that depends. Under certain conditions, it could 
be made a very good thing.” 

“For instance, suppose it was a very large fortune to 
be handled, and that, by a certain influence being brought 
to bear, your firm were appointed to manage it for the 
heir. It could be made a good thing of, eh?” 

“Well, that’s about what I mean; but how in the name 
of all that’s mysterious did you come to know anything 
about the matter ?” 

“Dobson, a young fellow, whose only capital is his 
wits, and his only hope of salvation his ability to em- 
ploy them, gets to know a good many things in this wicked 
City of London.” 

“It would appear so, certainly, if you really know any- 
thing of this matter. But we shan’t be able to do any 
business on mere moonshine, you know. If you can bring 
about certain results, re the estate of Patrick Dunbar, 
I can conceive of our being able to, well, do some pretty 
good business together.” 

“Then, in plain English, if I were not only to produce 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


31 


the heir of the late Patrick Dunbar in this office, but, 
by the pleasant things I was able conscientiously to say 
of Messieurs Griggs and Dobson, from long acquaintance 
with them, to induce the heir to allow these gentlemen 
to administer the estate, would it, or would it not be 
equivalent to the payment of the total amount of my 
bills in their hands?” 

“That’s a pretty big contract, Gow. We can do busi- 
ness, I dare say; but your proposition rather takes away 
my breath, I’m free to admit. Now, in confidence, what 
do you really know about this matter, and how did you 
come to know it?” 

Gow looked at his friend with a glance in which con- 
tempt and amusement were about equally blended, as 
he answered, “I really don’t know whether to take it 
as a compliment or an insult that you should ask me 
such a question after the lengthy proposition I have made 
you. I have a secret for sale. Is it likely that I shall 
deliver the goods on credit to such an old shark as I know 
Sammy Dobson to be? No, no. If we are to do business, 
let’s get at it. If not, I’m off ; and you can spend a year’s 
income in advertising for your lost heir, and you’ll never 
find him, or if you do you’ll never be able to control 
him; whereas I have done the one, and I can do the 
other.” 

“Of course, you know, I should have to consult my 
partner in a matter of importance like this?” 

“Naturally, you would.” 

“Well, he might object.” 

“Perhaps, but I don’t think he would, if the matter was 
properly presented to him.” 

“And you absolutely refuse to give me any information 
until we consent to your terms ?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Gow, a new thought strikes me. What if, instead of 


32 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


our returning you your bills, as a quid pro quo , for your 
information in regard to the matter of Patrick Dunbar, 
we were to release your name on the bills, but, by an 
arrangement between us, put them oft on some other 
holder; Brown, for instance. A little understanding be- 
tween us, a few words in your favor from us, and the 
thing’s done. You have no particular objection to increas- 
ing his holdings, have you?” 

“Not the slightest in the world. In fact, I should 
enjoy it amazingly. Only bear in mind, please, that if 
I help you do this, we shall both be rendering ourselves 
liable to a charge of conspiracy, and that I shall expect 
you to protect me, as I certainly shall try to protect you. 
Another thing, if I, as a return for your release of my 
name on the bills you hold, help you to dispose of the 
other names upon them, I should expect you to speak 
so well of me to my Bankers and others that I can dis- 
pose of a few on my own account. Do you follow me ?” 

“Um, yes. I think that could be included in the ar- 
rangement.” 

“Well, then, I don’t see but that we have practically 
come to terms; except, of course, that all must be re- 
duced to writing.” 

“Rather dangerous, Gow, putting it in writing.” 

“Well, what do you suggest. You don’t trust me any 
more than I trust you. What’s to be done?” 

“When could you produce the heir?” 

“At any time.” 

“Very well, then, as soon as you produce him, we will 
erase your name from your bills. Does that satisfy you ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then, what date shall we set for the settlement of the 
matter ?” 

“Thursday, at eleven o’clock.” 

“It’s a bargain,” said Dobson, and then Gow took his 
departure. 


CHAPTER III. 


Gow had effected a double object in the interview with Dob- 
son, described in the last chapter. He had, of course, condi- 
tionally upon his being able to prove his friend’s claim to 
the estate in question, arranged for the settlement of 
his own indebtedness to Griggs and Dobson. Secondly, he 
had gone a long way on the road to securing a very powerful 
hold upon Dunbar, in the event of his coming into his 
money. The next step, namely, to prove, or to enable Dun- 
bar to prove his claim, was not so clear. Here, again, 
however, his interview with Dobson had done him yoeman 
service. He had gone to that interview fairly well satisfied 
that the advertisement he had seen in the Times related 
to an estate. Any notice speaking of the possible “advan- 
tage” that will accrue to a person by calling upon a solicitor 
in London, by long association has come to mean the dis- 
covery of the lost heir to an estate ; and nothing else. Still, 
suspecting a thing, and absolutely knowing it, are two 
very different affairs. He knew there was an estate in- 
volved now, and he also knew it was a large one. 

How, in regard to his friend’s title to it, he was pro- 
ceeding on an assumption, it was true ; but, all things con- 
sidered, it was not much more of an assumption than the 
one he had already succeeded in turning into a certainty, 
by means of his boldly following it up. Why should he 
not be equally successful in the latter instance? Then, 
again, he had Dobson’s interest on his side, instead of op- 
posed to him as it easily might have been. The wish was 


3 


34 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


father to the thought; and that is always a tremendous 
factor in such affairs. He had succeeded in setting Dob- 
son’s mind in a receptive condition to assist Dunbar in es- 
tablishing his claim. In fact, the former had been in- 
duced to admit that it was largely to his interest to have 
the latter establish it. 

So, as far as he could see, Gow had every reason to 
congratulate himself upon the progress he had achieved up 
to the present time. Only one thing he had neglected to 
do, which gave him a little uneasiness, and that was he 
had failed to ask Dobson not to allude to the fact of his 
visit to Dunbar. This, however, was a risk he must take 
his chances in regard to; as it would have weakened his 
position with the sharp old solicitor to have discovered his 
(Gow’s) disloyalty to his friend. The next move was to see 
Dunbar and ascertain whether or not he had made any prog- 
ress in his own investigation of the affair. So, on the 
Tuesday evening after his visit to Dobson, Gow stationed 
himself in the coffee-room of the Craven Hotel, in the 
hope that his friend would drop in on his way Home. He 
was not disappointed. Dunbar was anxious to see Gow 
for the purpose of communicating to him his discovery of 
his uncle’s informal will. Having accepted How’s offer of 
an introduction to Dobson, and made a confidant of him 
so far in the progress of the affair, he could hardly have 
done less. 

“Well, what luck, old boy?” Gow began, cheerily, as his 
friend entered the room, and took a seat near him before 
the fire. 

“Good luck, so far, I should say, Gow, responded Dunbar. 
I have found out, to what I consider a certainty now, that, 
first, I had an uncle Patrick; second, that he formerly 
lived near Cork; third, that he emigrated to America in 
the thirties of the present century. Then, fourth, and last, 
but most important of all, as it seems to me, I have dis- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


35 


covered that my uncle Patrick was indebted to my father 
for a very considerable sum of money actually advanced to 
him; and that, as a protection to my father for the final 
repayment of said sum, he made a will in his favor.” 

Gow, who sat with his mouth opening wider and wider as 
his friend went on detailing his progress in the solution 
of an affair which had come to mean financial life or death 
to him, could hardly restrain himself at the finish; and 
when Dunbar came to the statement that he had actually 
found a will, he jumped up from his chair and capered 
about the room in a manner calculated to disgust the 
staid old gentlemen who generally frequented the place; 
but, who, the time being Christmas, were presumably in 
the bosoms of their families. Finally, he resumed his seat, 
and said, “And now, old boy, what in the world more do 
we require to prove our claim? You certainly are satis- 
fied of it, aren’t you?” 

“Frankly speaking, I am, Gow; but, it seems too good to 
be true, as my mother says, for one thing; and then I 
really have no proof that my uncle is the Patrick Dunbar 
they are looking for. There may have been a dozen of 
them, for all I know.” 

“Oh ye of little faith,” said Gow, joyously, “Why, my 
dear boy we’ve made miles of progress since we last met. 
Rome wasn’t built in a day, as you ought to know at your 
time of life. If, in the next few weeks, we go on as fast, 
or half as fast, as we have gone so far, we shall be in the 
actual possession of the property before you can say Mack 
Robinson.’ ” 

“Very well, Gow; it can’t come too soon, but I’m dis- 
trustful of fate, in this case, even if she comes bearing 
gifts. It seems too utterly and entirely out of my line, 
you know.” 

“I know, old chap, it is not easy for a man who has 
had a hard dull grind of it in life to take a cheerful view of 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


36 

anything relating to his own future good fortune. But 
look at it in this way: Would this piece of good luck be 
any more impossible, or out of the due order of things 
for you than for some other chap who possibly may have 
had twice the hard luck you’ve had? This estate must 
go to someone. Why not to you, as well, or better, than to 
any one else? Will you answer me that?” 

“I admit the truth of all you say, and I thank you for 
saying it,” said Dunbar, seriously, “but I have my doubts, 
just the same, and I shall continue to have them, until the 
matter is finally settled.” 

“But not to the extent of putting difficulties in your 
own way by your lack of confidence, I hope ?” 

“No, certainly not. I have had ocular proof now that 
I am the heir of my uncle, Patrick Dunbar, for I have his 
will, and a letter explaining to any one’s entire satisfaction 
why he felt called upon to make it in my father’s favor; 
or, in fact, the ‘valuable consideration,’ as I suppose the 
lawyers would call it. He owed my father money, which he 
honorably wished to repay. He could hardly have done less. 
But, you see, Gow, I put myself in any lawyer’s place, Dob- 
son’s, for instance, and ask myself, ‘would you feel you 
had done your whole duty to your clients in turning over a 
valuable estate to a person who has so little to show in the 
way of evidence of a title to it as I have ?’ Then, I answer 
myself, ‘no, I certainly should not,’ and that is about as 
far as I can get.” 

Gow asked to see the papers, and Dunbar showed them 
to him. After reading them carefully over, he handed 
them back to his friend, saying, impressively, as far as it 
was in the man to say anything impressively, “Dunbar, 
in every case of this kind, some species of doubt has to be 
overcome before the right man is found to take title to an 
estate which otherwise would go a begging. If it were not 
so, why should anybody take the trouble to employ solici- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


37 


tors to look the matter up, and why should those solicitors 
spend their own time and their clients 5 money in asking a 
question that they themselves could answer, or in looking 
for a man who was already found? The last time I saw 
you, we neither of us knew a tithe of that we actually know 
now in regard to this matter, and yet we decided to take 
the stand that we were the true heirs, and put the other 
fellow to the proof that we were not. With the evidence 
we have up our sleeves now, it seems to me that there 
should be no show whatever of doubt or weakness on our 
parts. We are the heirs , and the other fellow must come 
to our way of thinking ; and, leave it to me, he shall !” 

Sharp man of the world as Gow, young as he was, had 
come to be by force of circumstances, he probably in the 
bottom of his heart recognized the difficulties yet to be 
overcome in the path of a free entry into the promised land 
of the Dunbar estate quite as keenly, or more so, than 
Dunbar himself. But he knew the value of the force of 
absolute conviction in the mind of an honest and sin- 
cere man like his friend, and intended, as usual, to play 
it for all it was worth. “The truth, and nothing but the 
truth/ 5 he went on, “is what we are after in this matter, 
just as it is what the other side is after. If this estate 
belongs to you, as you are thoroughly convinced it does by 
this time, you want it ; and you must have it. It would be 
just as dishonest for someone else to try to snatch it from 
you, as the matter stands, as it would be for you to attempt 
to snatch it from someone else if it stood differently. What 
I want you to do is to look at the thing with the absolute 
conviction that you are in the right, and that you are the 
rightful owner of this estate. 1 , aided by circumstances 
which I feel sure will come to light, will do the rest. Will 
you do your part? 55 

“Yes, 1 will, Gow, and I feel perfectly right in doing 


38 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


Then Gow gave Dunbar some hints as to his attitude 
towards Dobson, at the coming interview, and a general lec- 
ture on the value of backbone in asserting one’s self and 
one’s rights in this world, which, springing as they did 
from a long and varied experience, had their due weight; 
and then the meeting broke up with an agreement to meet 
at Dobson’s office at the time agreed upon, which was the 
following Thursday at eleven o’clock. 

Thursday came, and, prompt to the minute, the two 
young men met in the ante-room of Dobson’s office. It 
had been agreed between them that whoever arrived first 
should wait for the other, with a view to impressing Dob- 
son with the weight of their united personalities. They 
now requested the clerk to announce them, which that func- 
tionary did, in due form. They found Dobson seated at 
his desk with an imposing array of legal documents before 
him, and looking for all the world like the overworked 
family solicitor and important man of affairs the world 
thought him to be; and would continue to think, until 
the most overwhelming evidence was brought to the con- 
trary. The critical observer, however, would have de- 
tected several ear marks of trouble and anxiety about the 
man; one of them being the obsequious manner in which 
he received our friends, Dunbar and Gow. 

“Dobson,” the latter said, with all the impressiveness of 
a well rehearsed role he had set himself, “this is my old 
friend Mr. Patrick Dunbar, of Elm-hurst Lodge, Putney, 
and of Billiter Square, City. He is also the son of the late 
William Dunbar, of London, formerly of Cork, Ireland, 
and the nephew of Patrick Dunbar, also, formerly of Cork, 
but subsequently of Hew York, in the States. In view of 
the importance of the matter we have in hand, however, I 
have requested my friend Dunbar to bring with him for 
your inspection all papers in his possession relating to his 
birth, family history, and so forth; which he has done, 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


39 


and all of which are entirely at yonr disposal, although I 
have not the slightest doubt, that, having known me and 
my father before me, for these fifty years, my word would 
amply suffice. And now, sir, we should consider it a favor 
if you would inform us what advantage, as stated in your 
notice in the Times , is to ensue to the heir of the late 
Patrick Dunbar in calling upon you ; for here he is.” 

The easy assurance with which this little set speech was 
delivered, together with the large issues at stake in the 
crafty old lawyer’s present position, were almost sufficient 
to carrry the day with no further evidence whatever; but 
a lawyer never gets over being a lawyer, and a lawyer never 
by any chance admits anything until it has been legally 
proven. So, neither Gow nor Dunbar were surprised in 
the least to have the cross-examination, usual and to be 
expected in such cases, fully gone into, exactly as if Dun- 
bar had come to his office entirely unvouched for, instead of 
with the overflowingly ample introduction he had brought 
with him. Finally, after having to all appearing, fully 
satisfied himself as to young Dunbar’s legal identity, but 
with no allusion whatever on either side to the real question 
at issue, namely the estate to be disposed of, Dobson said : 

“Mr. Dunbar, through our mutual friend Gow, you have 
asked me the purport of the notice addressed to the heirs 
of Patrick Dunbar in the Times. Being now fully satis- 
fied of your identity, thanks to your papers, which are all 
apparently in perfect order, and to our friend’s highly 
satisfactory introduction, I now feel at liberty to freely 
disclose the nature of the business we have in hand. In 
doing so I shall begin by reading you a portion of a letter 
addressed to us by our American correspondents, Messrs. 
Smith & Moulton, of New York.” 

Here Dobson, with some show of difficulty in finding the 
document he was looking for in the mass of legal wreck- 
age lying before him on his desk, finally extracted a let- 


40 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


ter, which, having adjusted his glasses, and cleared his 
throat, as if desiring to add impressiveness to what he had 
to communicate, he read as follows: 

“About the beginning of the present century, a young 
man, by the name of Hammond, came to New York from 
some New England town, with a few thousand dollars cap- 
ital with which he began to speculate in land. At that 
time, the whole northern portion of Manhattan Island was 
almost as wild as it was when Hudson first discovered it. 
Gradually, as the population of the town increased, the land 
began to be taken up first as farms, and later as gentlemen’s 
country places ; but it could be had at that time for almost 
a song, so distant was it from what anyone at that time 
would have considered the northernmost possible limit of 
the city’s growth. 

“Young Hammond, foreseeing a great future for the 
city, and desiring to secure a home in the country adjacent, 
finally bought a large farm on what was then known as 
the Bloomingdale road, some five or six miles north of the 
then city limits. The place was inaccessible, uncultivated, 
and unattractive; but he went to work with a will and de- 
veloped it into a farm ; built a cheaply constructed wooden 
house upon it, and took a newly married wife to live 
there. As time went on, the fact of a respectable family’s 
having settled in the place induced others to settle there, and 
soon what was once an isolated farm, became the centre of 
rather a numerous settlement of gentlemen’s places. Ham- 
mond prospered wonderfully in his business for a while, 
as his money being invested in land, and land rapidly in- 
creasing in value, he could hardly help doing. But things 
took a turn. Money became a very difficult thing to come 
by, and land became the very worst commodity to borrow it 
upon. Hammond soon found himself ‘land poor,’ and very 
land poor, at that. Buying, as he had done, on a rising 
market, it had been extremely easy for him to mortgage his 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


41 


property for very nearly what he had paid for it, and with 
the money thus acquired to go on buying. This he had 
done to such an extent that when the money panic came he 
was so deeply involved as to be in great danger of being 
forced to the wall. In his extremity he was compelled to 
allow a number of his mortgages to be foreclosed. At last 
it came to a point where he had practically nothing left 
but the homestead; and even that was mortgaged for an 
amount, which, though small, was unattainable to the un- 
fortunate young man at that time. 

“In this trouble, Hammond naturally looked about him 
for some friendly assistance; but, for a long time looked in 
vain. Finally, just as he was about to lose his home by 
foreclosure, aid came to him from the most unexpected 
source, as sometimes happens in such emergencies. Among 
his friends, was a bright young Irishman by the name of 
Murphy, who had recently come to the States to seek his 
fortunes. Murphy was evidently well brought up, and was 
a genial, wholesouled kind of young man, whom Ham- 
mond had liked from his first meeting with him. In some 
way it had come to Murphy’s knowledge that his friend 
was in financial difficulties, and, with the warm-hearted 
impulsiveness of the Irish nature, he called upon Ham- 
mond, and asked if he could in any way be of service to 
him. Hammond replied that he could only serve him by 
lending him a matter of a few thousand dollars, the 
amount of the mortgage upon his farm. 

“Now, to the Irish kindness of heart and willingness to 
oblige a friend, is very often joined the other Irish quality 
of inability to do so. Murphy was sincerely sorry, but he 
had no money, and saw no possibility of coming by any. 
In fact, he had left his friend’s house, and had tried to 
forget the incident, when it occurred to him to try and 
borrow the money for Hammond’s pressing needs from 
some of his own personal friends. Among the number 


42 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


of these, was a man by the name of Patrick Dunbar, from 
Cork, Ireland. Dunbar was a wild young fellow, like him- 
self, fond of play, and somewhat unreliable in many ways, 
but possessed of a good heart. To him, therefore, he went, 
and told Ha mm onds tale of woe. Dunbar at first said it 
was impossible for him to do anything, but then seemed to 
change his mind, and ended up by offering to raise half of 
the amount, if Murphy would raise the other half. This 
arrangement was finally carried out. The money was 
handed to Hammond, who paid off the mortgage, but made 
a new one in favor of Murphy for the sum advanced, who 
in turn transferred half of the security to his friend Dun- 
bar; and there the matter ended for the present. 

“Not very long after this, Hammond, who had never 
been strong, and whose life of late had been a very wearing 
one, died, leaving his widow poorly provided for. Beyond 
the farm, in fact, which was now free from encumbrance 
other than the mortgage held by Murphy and Dunbar, she 
was well nigh penniless. Owing to the late Hammond’s re- 
gard for Murphy, and the pecuniary obligation he was 
under to him, the latter had become a very frequent visitor 
at the Hammond’s. In her trouble and penury, the widow, 
therefore, appealed to the young man for assistance and ad- 
vice. Then, as pity is said to be akin to love, Murphy fin- 
ally fell in love with the widow, proposed to her, was ac- 
cepted, and ruled in the place of Hammond deceased, on 
the farm. 

“As a result of all this, it seemed proper and right for 
Dunbar and Murphy to come to an understanding in re- 
gard to the matter of the mortgage, and, as there seemed 
but little prospect of its ever being paid off, as financial 
affairs looked at the time, by an arrangement agreeable to 
all the parties interested, a friendly foreclosure suit was 
entered against Mrs. Murphy, late Hammond, which was 
allowed to go by default, the property was bid in by Mur- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


43 


phy for the amount of the mortgage, and finally a one-half 
undivided interest in it was conveyed to Dunbar. As time 
went on, these two men had further dealings in New York 
real estate together, with a result that they got loaded up 
with land, heavily encumbered with mortgages, as specu- 
lative land in those days was pretty sure to be, and finally 
got into financial difficulties; just as Hammond had done, 
and as thousands of people did in the good old real-estate 
gambling days of New York. 

“As a result of these entanglements, his gaming debts, 
his dissolute ways, and the final stoppage of all funds from 
home, Dunbar concluded, or more properly speaking, was 
forced to conclude that New York was no place for him. 
So, one bright day, he turned up missing, leaving a letter 
to Murphy in which he spoke of himself as an irretriev- 
ably ruined man, and asking him to make the best he could 
out of the wreck of his affairs, to pay himself for some dues 
from him, and to do as he thought best with the rest of his 
estate, if indeed, there was any ‘rest/ which he very much 
doubted there ever would be. 

“Shortly after the disappearance of Dunbar, matters took 
a turn for the better in New York real estate, and prices 
began to mount again, until a veritable real estate boom set 
in. Then it was that the partnership holdings of land of 
Dunbar and Murphy rose so rapidly and to such tremend- 
ously high figures that Murphy was able to repay himself 
the amount due from Dunbar, and in addition sold enough 
land for the partnership account to make them both very 
rich men. Murphy then made every endeavor to find his 
late partner, but without success. He wrote to postmas- 
ters in all the cities of the West, whither he supposed he 
had gone, and even advertised, but nothing came of it. 
Dunbar, it seems, had become so thoroughly discouraged 
and frightened by his experiences of business life in New 
York as to have firmly made up his mind never to return. 


44 


PATRICK DURBAR 


In fact, it transpired afterward that the very means taken 
to bring him back had had the contrary effect. Fearing 
that an advertisement he saw in a newspaper asking him 
to return was a snare, he actually was frightened out of 
the town in which he was then living and further into the 
West. 

“In the meantime, Murphy went on prospering in New 
York. Acting upon the instructions contained in Dun- 
bar’s parting letter, which had all the force and effect of a 
power of attorney, he began selling off their holdings at 
fabulously high prices, and scrupulously putting away his 
partner’s half of the money arising from such sales. The 
Hammond farm, or homestead, had by this time become 
enormously valuable, and was being rapidly encroached 
upon by the advancing requirements of a great and popu- 
lous city, such as New York had become. Murphy began to 
divide it up into city lots, and to sell each one of them at 
prices far in advance of the price of the whole original 
farm. He finally so reduced it in size as to leave a plot 
just large enough for his own needs, and then stopped. 
Then, being an enormously rich man, by this time, he built 
a princely house, well furnished and appointed, and began 
to enjoy life, as he certainly was entitled to do, having re- 
gard to his loyalty to Hammond, in his lifetime, and his 
widow after him. 

“In time, an only child, a daughter, was born to them, 
whom they named Helena, and both father and the mother, 
fond as they were of each other, fairly worshipped this 
beautiful child. It was an ideal household in every way. 
Murphy, although an Irishman, and a Roman Catholic, 
was a highly educated, refined man; by no means a bigot. 
He turned out also a most affectionate husband and father, 
as well as a strictly honorable man. Then, as was con- 
stantly happening in New York in those days, prices of 
land dropped again. Then came a panic. But Murphy, 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


45 


having profited by the experience of former years, now had 
money in large quantities to invest, instead of going a bor- 
rowing it. So, still acting under his late partner’s general 
instructions, he now went into the market and bought 
largely of land, which he knew must in the future become 
immensely valuable. His assumption was fully confirmed 
by a subsequent tremendous rise in land values; and, as a 
result, both he and his absent partner became richer than 
ever. 

“So, years went on ; and, by a series of lucky investments, 
sales, repurchases, and the absolutely irresistible upward 
tendency of all things appertaining to land in Hew York, 
Murphy became richer and richer, and, by the same token, 
Dunbar. Murphy, although his and his partner’s interests 
were still legally undivided, kept them absolutely apart, 
so that in case of any disaster in his own affairs, his part- 
ner’s share would be uninvolved. So, Dunbar, unconscious- 
ly to himself, was a very rich man. He had his rent rolls 
by this time running into the tens of thousands of dollars 
a year, and, in addition, a very large holding of Hew York 
property which was all the time doubling and redoubling in 
value. 

“Then came a change. Murphy, as thousands have done 
before him, and will do until the end of time, became in- 
flated by his invariably good luck and uninterrupted suc- 
cess. He was getting on in years, by this time, also, and 
perhaps had to a certain degree lost his grip upon financial 
affairs. At any rate, operating upon what his friends and 
his own judgment counseled him was a sure thing, he at 
last, like the pitcher that went once too often to the well, 
got broken. He got into serious difficulties, and couldn’t 
recover himself, as he had done once before, when a 
younger man. Honorable to the end, he protected his 
absent partner’s interest, even at the expense of his own. 
But, from being a rich man, he became a poor one, then 


46 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


a broken-hearted one, and at last died, leaving his wife and 
daughter almost in poverty. They still retained what was 
left of the old homestead, the fine house, now far too large 
for them, and from neglect, grown dull and rather un- 
canny; but, it was probable, upon an adjustment of Dun- 
bar’s undivided share in the property of the late Murphy, 
that even this last remaining shelter for these two unfortu- 
nate ladies might be required of them to effect a final set- 
tlement. 

“Our firm having acted in bygone years for Mr. Murphy 
was now required to take full possession and charge of all 
matters relating to her late husband’s estate, by his widow. 
Acting not only upon her husband’s instructions, but upon 
her own absolute determination to see justice done to Dun- 
bar, who, although absent, and probably dead, had once 
befriended her, this noble woman now begged of us to put 
every agency in operation to find Patrick Dunbar, or if 
dead, his legal successor or heir, to the end that he should 
come into his own. So earnest was she in this, that she 
actually spent her own money, which she could ill afford, 
in furtherance of the search. Finally, as a result of our in- 
quiries, we came upon what was to us absolute evidence of 
the demise of Patrick Dunbar. He died in California in 
1872, a bachelor and without issue, as far as we could as- 
certain. 

“After being informed of Dunbar’s death, Mrs. Murphy, 
although now in a position to quietly take possession of 
the large estate of her late husband’s partner, and al- 
though being very poor, instructed us to go on in our en- 
deavors to find a possible heir. So, having advertised in 
the American newspapers to no effect, we now request you 
to do the same in the English papers; for, not until they 
have exhausted every possible resource, will these two splen- 
did women feel justified in taking to their own use, poor as 
they are, one dollar of the property which may belong to 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


47 


the legal heir of the man who long years ago came to their 
rescue in time of need.” 

“This is the present situation of affairs. The estate 
amounts in round figures, to between three and four mil- 
lions of dollars. There is a rent roll of about one hun- 
dred and fifty thousand dollars, a large amount of splendid 
land in the most fashionable part of New York, rapidly in- 
creasing in value, and a large sum of ready money all await- 
ing to be turned over to the heir, or heirs of Patrick Dun- 
bar, who can successfully prove title to the estate.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


As Dobson finished reading this long letter and laid it down 
upon his desk, the two young men sat looking at each other 
absolutely dumfounded, not only at the colossal windfall 
the simple, innocent-looking notice in the Times had thrown 
in their way, but at the absolutely unbroken chain of evi- 
dence going to prove Dunbar’s title to the estate this letter 
had pieced out. All the parts fitted together like the parts 
of a Chinese puzzle which had been scattered but had now 
been reassembled. Nothing had as yet been said by either 
Dunbar or Gow of the discovery of Patrick Dunbar’s will, 
and the letter of explanation which accompanied it. It 
had been a part of Gow’s program, as well as of his in- 
structions to Dunbar to volunteer no information what- 
ever, but to only answer questions when put to him, and not 
before. Gow well understood and appreciated the value of 
the conservation of power, as well as the weakness of a 
cause bolstered up by a profuse and unnecessary show of 
assertion. So they had kept their last and most powerful 
gun in reserve. Gow was the first to speak : 

“Well, gentlemen, then it appears to be only a matter 
of entering into possession; as far as I can see. It’s a 
fairish estate, Dobson, eh?” 

“Fairish isn’t the word, Gow ; it’s a huge estate. Thirty 
thousand a year, to say nothing of lands and houses, cash 
in Bank, and God knows what all. But, you see, in the 
absence of a will, having regard to the extent of the prop- 
erty, the fact of its being situated in a foreign country, 


PATRICK DURBAR 


49 


the time that has elapsed between the death of the devisor 
and the fortunate discovery of the heir at law, and so 
forth, we may have some obstacles to overcome yet before 
we take possession. And then, of course, though highly 
improbable, it is possible, you know, that, although our 
friend here, Mr. Patrick Dunbar, can clearly prove himself 
to be the son of his father and the nephew of his uncle, 
it may be a different family of Dunbars entirely, that we 
are looking for. You see — 55 

Here Gow could restrain himself no longer, and there 
no longer being any reason why he should, he brought out 
his big gun all loaded and in condition to put a clincher on 
the whole matter. “See here, Dobson/’ he said sharply, 
and with the air of a man entrenched behind the very 
strongest position, “do you suppose for an instant that my 
friend Dunbar has gone into this matter in any way un- 
prepared to make full and incontrovertible proof of the 
justice of his claim? If you do, you make the gravest 
mistake of your lifetime; old as you are. Up to this time, 
I believe, we have answered all questions put to us in an 
absolutely frank and open manner that would have car- 
ried conviction with them anywhere; producing necessary 
documents, and all else required. If my memory serves 
me, you have not yet asked us to produce either the will of 
the late Patrick Dunbar, nor any evidence of the fact that 
my friend is the Dunbar your friends in New York are 
looking for. Do I understand that you now request us to 
produce these two items of evidence ? If so, kindly out with 
it ; and don’t keep us waiting.” 

“Why, um, of course, you know, Gow, I don’t for a mo- 
ment doubt either of the matters of fact which these two 
bits of evidence would conclusively prove. I’m as anxious 
as you or your friend can be to see this matter cleared up ; 
but Smith & Moulton, of New York, you know — ” 

“Oh, yes, Spenlow and Jorkins, over again;” said Gow, 


4 


50 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


contemptuously. “Dunbar, give me the rest of your papers. 
Thank you.” “Here you are, Dobson; here’s the will of 
the late Patrick Dunbar, rather informally drawn, it’s 
true; but quite in order, for all that. And here’s a letter 
from Patrick Dunbar in which he acknowledges his indebt- 
edness to his brother William for a large sum of money 
had and obtained, and speaks of having made a will in his 
favor to protect him for his disbursements on his account. 
Then again, here’s an allusion to Murphy and the real es- 
tate speculations; and all the rest of it. In God’s name, 
what further proof could any lawyer want; either in Eng- 
land, Ireland, America, or in Kingdom come?” 

Dobson took the papers, with a trembling hand, and 
carefully examined them. “Perfect,” he muttered to him- 
self, and then aloud : “You are a most fortunate man, Mr. 
Dunbar, in being able to show so clear a title to what any- 
one would have unquestionably asserted to be your estate, 
but which it might have been a little difficult to prove, for 
all that. I congratulate you with all my heart ; for, armed 
with these papers, we should have no further difficulty in 
our way.” Then, turning to Gow, he said, sharply, but 
with a merry twinkle in his eye, “Where the devil, Gow, 
did you get your legal training from? None but a man 
with a legal mind would have retained so much up his 
sleeve in the way of evidence as you had up yours, to play 
it so effectively as you have done. I congratulate you , my 
boy” 

“To the devil with your congratulations, Dobson,” said 
the young man, carelessly, but evidently pleased, for all 
that, “and now will you kindly communicate with your 
friends in New York as speedily as possible and bring this 
matter to a close.” 

“Indeed, I will,” said Dobson; and then the young men 
rose to take their departures. They descended the old-fash- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


51 


ioned stairway to the street, and Gow taking Dunbar’s arm 
familiarly, they entered Gray’s Inn yard by the wicket 
opening from Theobald’s Road, and were leisurely walking 
through the grounds, intending to emerge from them by 
the Holborn entrance, when Dunbar suddenly stopped 
short, and appeared to be debating a matter which had 
suddenly entered his mind. 

“What’s up now?” asked Gow, rather impatiently, “for- 
gotten something?” 

“Yes,” answered Dunbar, “yes; I have forgotten some- 
thing, something I fully intended to say to Dobson while 
he was reading his long letter ; but I was so taken aback by 
his announcement of the size of the estate that I confess 
I forgot it. I must return; but there is no occasion for 
your doing so, if you are pressed for time.” 

The contrast between the behavior of the two men as 
the result of their interview was very marked. Gow was 
boisterously exultant. He had won a tremendous stake 
with no very strikingly good cards in his hand. His exul- 
tation was coarse, and his manner towards his friend some- 
what domineering, as if he wished it understood that he, 
Gow, was really the man to be thanked for the successful 
issue of the whole affair. Dunbar’s attitude, as judged by 
his silence and lack of demonstration of any kind, might 
have been attributed to either a feeling of gratitude too 
deep for expression, or to some other consideration which 
for the moment, at least, about equally balanced what 
might otherwise have been a jubilation as eager as Dow’s. 
In either event, the latter had no intention of allowing 
Dunbar to in any way run a risk of upsetting a campaign 
which, under his management, had so far progressed so 
well. He was too proud or too diplomatic to ask ques- 
tions, so with a grunt of dissatisfaction he turned on his 
heel and followed his friend, saying: “I’ve nothing to do, 
old man, and as you’ve got the day to yourself, I was going 


5 2 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


to propose taking our luncheon together at the Cafe Royal, 
in Regent Street. Fll go back with you first, however, and 
we can see about the luncheon afterwards. I don’t suppose 
you will be long.” 

“No, Gow; five minutes will answer.” 

Then they both lapsed into silence, until they stood again 
in Dobson’s private office. “Mr. Dobson,” Dunbar began, 
“in hearing you read the account of the heroic self-sacrifice 
and honesty of those two women in New York, I fully in- 
tended to say something I had in my mind at the time, but 
did not wish to interrupt you. After that, it was crowded 
out of my mind by other things. Will you kindly request 
your friends in New York to say to those brave ladies, with 
my most respectful salutations, that I shall refuse to accept 
the estate which appears to be mine by inheritance until 
their wants have been fully and amply provided for, and 
that I know my mother and sisters will take the same view 
of the matter. If Messieurs Smith and Moulton will kindly 
ascertain what amount will render Mrs. Murphy and her 
daughter entirely comfortable for the rest of their days, T 
shall consider it an honor to sign any papers, or take any 
action that lies in my power to attain this end. This is 
what I returned to say to you, and I wish you would make 
it a part of your letter to your New York friends.” 

This was all said with a quiet dignity that left no possi- 
ble doubt as to the sincerity of his purpose, and yet with 
a certain authority which would evidently brook no denial. 

“I will carry out your instructions to the letter, Mr. 
Dunbar,” said Dobson, obsequiously; “but, you will pardon 
my suggesting, perhaps, that it is a little unusual to begin 
to give away an estate before you have taken possession of 
it.” 

“You will be good enough to convey my message to your 
friends, and particularly request them to give it to their 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


S3 


clients,” said Dunbar, quietly. “With such brave creatures 
as these ladies have proved themselves to be, I am willing 
to take my own chances of being misunderstood.” 

Here Gow ventured an objection, but Dunbar shut him 
off before it took actual form. Dunbar was evidently in no 
mood to be trifled with that day. As they were passing 
out of Dobson’s office, the old solicitor requested Gow to 
remain a moment, as he had something to say to him about 
his own personal affairs. As Gow was quite as anxious to 
have a word in private with Dobson as the latter was to 
have one with him, he excused himself to Dunbar, inti- 
mating that as he might be detained longer than he, Dun- 
bar, would care to wait, they had better give up the plan for 
lunching together; but, agreeing to meet at the Craven on 
the ensuing evening, at the usual time. As this arrange- 
ment pleased Dunbar much better than it would have been 
complimentary to his friend to admit, he shook him by the 
hand, and took his departure; leaving his two friends to 
have their conference out by themselves. 

As soon as Dunbar had disappeared into the street, Dob- 
son began. Well done, Gow, my boy. I really didn’t think 
it was in you.” 

“Didn’t think what was in me?” replied Gow, rather 
curtly. 

“Why, to handle this affair as cleverly as you have done. 
You seem to have the bit well in that fellow’s mouth. You 
can turn him any way you wish. Of course, you will re- 
member our agreement about bringing the business of man- 
aging his estate, after he gets it, to us?” 

“Certainly, providing you carry out your end of the agree- 
ment by releasing my name from the bills you hold.” 

“Oh, yes, to be sure; but, you know Dunbar has not 
quite come into his estate yet, and in the meantime several 
of your bills are about due. We shall expect you, of course, 
to take care of those, you know.” 


54 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


“ J ust like you, Dobson ; biting off your nose to spite your 
face. I had supposed until now that we had a definite un- 
derstanding in regard to all my bills, but as this appears 
not to be the ease, we will call the whole arrangement off, 
and begin over again. I will meet my bills as they come 
due; and, you understand, I will take Dunbar and his 
business wheresoever I choose ; and now, good day.” 

The young man rose from his chair, took his hat and 
walking stick, and was proceeding toward the door, with 
every apparent intention of passing through it, never to re- 
enter it again, when Dobson sprang upon him, and almost 
forced him to resume his seat. 

“Don’t make a damned fool of yourself, Gow,” he said, in 
evident trepidation. “We neither of us can afford to quar- 
rel with the other just now.” 

“I can dispense with you much better than you can dis- 
pense with me, my friend,” said Gow, angrily. “I’m in 
clover now, or soon shall be, and I’m of more than half a 
mind to throw you over for good and all. I’m sick to death 
of your damned bullying ways, and your sixty per cent. 
Jew rates. Its all very well for you to talk about our not 
being in a position to quarrel; but take very good care of 
yourself, my friend, or I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll not 
forget in a day or two, if ever at all.” 

There had been a distinct ring of triumph and exulta- 
tion in Gow’s attitude towards his friend, or his enemy, 
whichever you choose to call a man who loans money at 
sixty per cent., ever since the latter half of his assumption 
in regard to Dunbar’s ability to prove his title to his es- 
tate had been turned into a certainty. Luck was running 
strongly in his favor that day. It was safe to trust it with 
one more deal of the cards. So, after the men had sat for 
a few moments each engaged in silently taking stock of the 
probable number of guns the other had in his battery, an 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


55 


idea seemed to suddenly occur to Gow : “See here, Dobson,” 
he said defiantly, “my first impulse is to get up and leave 
your office, never to enter it again ; but, on second thoughts, 
I will make you one more proposition, and only one; mind 
you. You must take it or leave it at once; otherwise, by 
George, Fll take my man to another solicitor, as sure as my 
name is Gow. I need money, considerable money to pay 
my Christmas bills and to settle some matters with my 
Bankers. I could easily go to Dunbar now and get the 
money from him, but I don’t care to; for manifold reasons. 
The former arrangement we made about releasing my name 
from the bills in your hands and shouldering the remain- 
ing names off upon Brown, was ingenious; but it would 
take time, and I need the money at once to be of any use 
to me. It would be a neater financial transaction, as mat- 
ters stand, for me simply to draw upon you now and here 
for the money I require. So, just get five bill stamps of a 
shilling each, and I will draw upon you for five thousand 
pounds. Having done that, of course, I will meet all ma- 
turing bills as they come due.” 

“Good Lord, man,” exclaimed Dobson, in alarm, “you 
can’t mean that. Why I haven’t five thousand pounds loose 
in the world.” 

“Perhaps not,” said Gow, carelessly ; “but you have credit 
at your Bankers. If they don’t care for my acceptances, go 
to Brown and tell him the position I stand in as regards 
Dunbar, and perhaps he'll take ’em. At any rate, those are 
my terms; and if you acccept, I’ll trouble you to produce 
those stamped bits of paper at once for me to fill in, and I’ll 
take your check for the money, but I’ll not pay it into my 
Bank until you have had a chance to discount the bills. 
Come now, this is my last word.” 

“And in return you promise to use your influence with 
Dunbar to retain us as his solicitors in the management 
of his estate?” 


56 


PATRICK DURBAR 


“Yes, I do.” 

“At this Dobson rang his bell for the clerk, and asking 
Gow for five shillings to pay for the stamps, sent the man 
to the nearest Post Office for the bill forms; and in a half 
hour, Gow took his departure from the office in Theobald’s 
Road with a check for five thousand pounds in his pocket. 

In the meantime, Dunbar was passing along Oxford 
Street, when he suddenly remembered that he had had no 
luncheon. He looked at his watch and found the hour to be 
nearly one o’clock. He had by this time reached Totten- 
ham Court road, intending to take the short cut to Piccadilly 
Circus through Shaftsbury Avenue. Instead of this, how- 
ever, he turned into the “Horse Shoe,” in Tottenham Court 
road, near the corner of Oxford Street, and ordered a sim- 
ple luncheon. As he had arranged with his people in the 
city to take the whole day off, he was in no haste in finishing 
his meal, but, on the contrary, took it very leisurely, his 
mind wandering off into all the possible flights of fancy 
which his altered condition in life suggested. After lunch- 
eon, he went into the smoking room, ordered a drop of whis- 
key and water, and lighting his pipe, spent another hour in 
meditation. So, it was getting on to four o’clock when he 
finally emerged from the “Horse Shoe,” and took his way 
down Shaftsbury Avenue. Night was beginning to close 
in, and the thick yellow fog of the short winter days in 
London hung over everything, obscuring the vision and 
giving a man enveloped in it a certain feeling of isolation 
from the world which he could so dimly see about him, 
while it brought forcibly to his mind the picture of the 
cosey fireside of his home in anticipation of his arrival 
there. The air had that penetrating, damp chill of the 
London winter, which to the man with a fireside waiting 
for him not far off, is tolerable ; but to the homeless wan- 
derer of the streets, is inhospitable and hopeless indeed. 

He had nearly reached Piccadilly Circus, where he in- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


57 


tended to take the bus for Putney, when, passing under a 
street lamp, his attention was attracted by the outline of a 
woman’s figure heavily leaning against it, as if to prevent 
herself from falling. Although seen through the darkness 
and fog, which imparted a phantom-like appearance to 
everything within its grasp, there were unmistakable marks 
about the woman which excluded her from the class of the 
lost creatures who frequent that part of the town. In the 
first place, it was too early in the evening for them to be 
about. Then, although only indistinctly seen, there was a 
refined air about her. There was none of the tawdry finery 
about her which is so often the distinguishing feature of 
those unfortunate women. On the contrary, she was mod- 
estly dressed, and, under different conditions, would never 
have been mistaken for anything other than what she ap- 
peared, a lady. But, she was unattended ; she was in a very 
bad quarter of the town for a respectable woman to be seen 
alone in, and, to the indifferent or unpractised eye, she 
would have appeared to be in a condition, more’s the pity 
of it, not unusual to that class of women, namely, the worse 
for liquor. 

Now Dunbar had naturally a very tender place in his 
heart for woman. This feeling of tenderness had that day 
been very much augmented, not only by his own sudden 
elevation into happiness and prosperity, but by the account 
of the noble action of two women in a far country who had 
freely and willingly stripped themselves of all the prosperity 
with which he had been clothed, in the pursuance of what 
they considered their bounden duty. It appeared proper 
and right to him, on account of the circumstances of this 
particular case, to extend a helping hand to a woman in 
distress, even in the face of all the possibilities connected 
with taking such a course. He therefore approached, and 
asked, “Are you in any trouble ? Is there anything I can do 
for you?” 


58 


PATRICK DURBAR 


The woman, aroused by perhaps the first kindly voice she 
had heard for many a day, replied faintly, but in a man- 
ner to disarm any suspicion as to her perfect sobriety, “I 
have been taken with a fainting fit; would you, might I 
ask you to go with me to the chemist’s across the street to 
get me a restorative?” 

Dunbar’s answer was to support her as tenderly and 
chivalrously into the apothecary’s as if she had been the 
finest lady in the land. Assisting her to a chair, he pro- 
cured the necessary restorative, the man in charge of the 
shop looking at the proceedings from behind his counter 
with anything but apparent approbation. As soon as the 
young woman had sufficiently regained consciousness to 
converse intelligently, Dunbar asked her if he could be of 
any further assistance. “Could he call a cab ?” The vehe- 
mence with which the suggestion of a cab was rejected had 
the effect of opening Dunbars’ eyes to at least one feature of 
this poor woman’s case, which was that she was penniless. 
In the strong contrast which his own newly found prosperity 
offered to the miserable condition of this poor woman, Dun- 
bar found it both easy and natural to sink all other consid- 
erations than her immediate succor. He paid the druggist 
for his medicine, and going to the door of the shop, hailed 
a cab and assisted the woman into it, asking her where to 
direct the cabman to drive. She gave an address in Pim- 
lico, another rather suspicious circumstance; but Dunbar 
had fully made up his mind to see the adventure to an end, 
wherever it should lead him. 

The woman had by this time so far recovered as to be ap- 
parently keenly sensible to all that was going on about her. 
Among other things, she was evidently touched to the heart 
by Dunbar’s attentions. As they groped their way through 
fog and the darkness of the night, the young man asked 
her: 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


59 


“When you felt your fainting turn coming on, why didn’t 
you go immediately to the druggist and get the neces- 
sary medicine to relieve you?” 

“I did,” she answered. 

“Well, then, may I ask, why did you ask me to go with 
you a second time ?” 

“Because the man refused to serve me unless accom- 
panied by a gentleman, and ordered me out of the shop.” 

“Is this possible ?” 

“It is not only possible ; it is true.” 

A silence ensued, and then Dunbar asked again: “And 
would you mind telling me to what you attribute your 
fainting fit?” 

The woman hesitated, as if ashamed or too proud to 
answer, but finally said: 

“Hunger.” 

“Hunger, good God, why didn’t you tell me when we 
were in a part of the town where we could find an eating 
house? We shall certainly find none about here; and it’s 
rather late to go back. What shall we do ?” 

The woman was silent. Dunbar waited a moment for 
an answer, and then tried again: “How are you living at 
the address you gave me. That is, is it a lodging house, 
or have you your own rooms?” 

“I have one room by myself, at the top of the house.” 

“Have you any means of preparing a meal in your room ?” 

“Yes; I do my own cooking.” 

“Are there any shops near where you live, at which we 
could get what you require ?” 

“Yes ; but I have no fuel to cook with.” 

“But that can be had, as well as food, near where you 
live?” 

“Oh yes; if you have the money. But I have none.” 

Dunbar then requested his companion to direct the cab- 
man to stop at the shop nearest her lodging where the 


6o 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


Accessary supplies could be secured, and then they both 
lapsed into silence, while they continued to grope their way 
onward through the fog. At last they came to a street 
where there were more lights and signs of activity apparent 
than in those through which they had been passing, and 
soon the cabman pulled up in front of a grocer’s shop, where 
they alighted. Having entered the place, Dunbar requested 
the young woman to select the articles she required, which 
she did with the avidity of a half-starved person, yet with 
the moderation of a proud nature reluctant to impose upon 
the kindness of a benefactor. At any rate, with a little gen- 
tle pressure upon Dunbar’s part, he soon had the satisfaction 
of seeing a generous store of provisions and fuel, not only 
bought and paid for, but placed in a barrow and actually 
on its way to its destination. Then moving towards the 
door, both he and the young woman stood facing each 
other, as if each were waiting for the other to propose the 
next move to be made. The woman spoke first : “My lodg- 
ing is only a moment’s walk from here, and, as I should not 
like to be seen in a cab with a gentleman by the people in 
the house, I will say good night to you here ; and may God 
bless you for all you have done for me.” 

She involuntarily held out her hand, as she said this; 
and, then, suddenly appearing to realize that Dunbar might 
not care to take it, was withdrawing it, when the young 
man grasped it cordially, holding it for a moment while 
he said : “Fortune has been kinder to me to-day, my friend, 
than ever before in my life. I have come into a large for- 
tune most unexpectedly, and, I may say, undeservedly ; as I 
had no part whatever in having earned it. Now, it would 
complete and crown the happiness of this day’s experience 
to find someone to share it with me.” 

Here he released the young woman’s hand, and . taking 
his purse from his pocket, extracted from it a crisp ten 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


6l 


pound note, which, with the air of a person receiving rather 
than bestowing a favor, he handed her. The woman took it 
as if at first not realizing what he had given her; but as 
soon as she recovered from her first amazement at the 
graciousness as well as the magnitude of the gift, the effect 
was magical. She was a tall creature, perfectly formed ac- 
cording to the English conception of female beauty. She 
now drew herself up to her full height, as if at first in- 
clined to resent the offer of such an important gift, and 
then suddenly changed her mind, as a perception of the 
great goodness and delicacy of the giver appeared to dawn 
upon her mind. At any rate she accepted it ; and waiting 
for a moment, evidently afraid to trust her voice, in her 
effort to restrain her emotion, said: “Will you be good 
enough, sir, to let me know the name of the man to whose 
noble generosity I owe so much?” 

“My name is Dunbar, Patrick Dunbar,” said the young 
man modestly, “but I beg you not to consider this little 
matter in any other than its true light, which is, as I have 
already said, that of a favor conferred upon me. You have 
enabled me to complete the happiest day of my life in a 
manner the nearest approaching the way in which I could 
hope to complete it; that is, in adding to another’s happi- 
ness ; and I sincerely thank you.” 

“And you have opened my eyes, sir, to the realization of 
a fact which I had lost sight of entirely, of late, and that 
is that there is at least one true and noble heart in the 
world; one man whose generosity and delicacy raise that 
title far above any other that could possibly be conferred 
upon him. Let me take a good look at you, Patrick Dun- 
bar ; and do you take a good look at me, that we may know 
each other when we meet again; for the one prayer of my 
miserable life shall be from this time on that I may be 
near you in your day of trouble, not to repay the debt of 


62 


PATRICK DURBAR 


loyalty I owe you, for a noble nature like yours would never 
consider it a debt, or much less look for its payment; but 
that I may bless you, and watch over you, and protect you, 
possibly, when you least are conscious of it. Good night; 
but to meet again!” 

Saying which, the woman stepped out upon the pave- 
ment, and the outline of her figure was soon lost in the 
fog as she proceeded on her way to her lonely habitation. 


CHAPTER V. 


Until the flying-machine, or some other means of aerial 
navigation shall have been perfected and come into general 
use, it is fairly safe to predict that human thought will con- 
tinue to easily hold the record for rapid transit over long 
distances on or over the periphery of the globe. It is to be- 
come a traveling companion of the author’s on one of these 
trips that an invitation is now extended to the reader who 
takes sufficient interest in our story to put up with the in- 
conveniences of the voyage. Considering the capabilities 
of the vehicle in which we make the journey, which has 
been known to travel to the sun or to even the much more 
remote heavenly bodies, and back again before breakfast; 
our present trip will appear a very short one. We are 
bound, in fact, for Hew York; in the United States of 
America. So, en voiture, messieurs , s 3 il vous plait. Cast 
off the anchor hooks. Open the throttle. Let her go. 
There , thank you, the journey’s over and here we are in 
Hew York ; passengers all well, and a clean bill of health to 
show the health officer who comes aboard at Quarantine. 

To those of our English passengers who are making the 
journey to the States for the first time, it is perhaps well 
to say that one’s first impressions of Hew York are apt to 
be misleading, and that it will not be until after we have 
alighted at one of the really fine hotels to now be found in 
the town, removed the travel stains from our persons and 
clothing, partaken of one of the thoroughly good meals 
obtainable in the place, smoked a good cigar, and got rested 


6 4 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


a little; that we shall begin to really appreciate the me- 
tropolis of the United States. 

********* 
Some weeks after the events described in the last chap- 
ter, Helena Murphy and her mother were considerably sur- 
prised and not a little alarmed to hear a ring at their door- 
bell, about eight o’clock in the evening. That bell, it is safe 
to assert, had not been heard a half dozen times in the last 
half dozen years; and never in the evening. Since the 
death of her husband, Mrs. Murphy had practically given up 
all relations with the outside world. The house and grounds 
had been allowed to run to ruin. Servants had one by one 
been dismissed, until the number had at last reduced itself 
to an old married couple, who in the prosperous days of 
the family had filled respectively the positions of butler 
and cook. The place itself was remote from the thickly 
populated part of the town, and the house was remote from 
the entrance to the grounds; upon the old Bloomingdale 
road. In the day time, an air of opulence gone to decay 
pervaded everything. The lawn was rank and weedy. The 
paths were rough and grass-grown. The out-buildings had 
a dilapidated appearance in keeping with the fortunes of 
the family ; which had long since been ruined beyond repair. 
At night, and especially a winter’s night, as on the occa- 
sion of which we speak, a light fall of snow, while con- 
cealing some of the dismal features of the surroundings, 
brought others into fantastic prominence ; and on the whole, 
a more dreary scene could hardly be imagined than that 
which greeted Mr. Thomas Moulton’s eyes on his passage 
from the entrance gate to the house occupied by the widow 
and daughter of the late Clarence Murphy, Esquire, de- 
ceased. 

Inside, the indications of respectable poverty were hard- 
ly less apparent. The carpets were worn to shreds and 
patches. The furniture was antiquated and broken. The 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


65 


architecture of the house itself, relating as it did to the 
very ugliest period of house building in America, from an 
ill-favored childhood, had more than fulfilled its youthful 
promise by lapsing into a transcendentally ugly and pov- 
erty-stricken old age. 

“Are the ladies at home?” demanded the caller of the 
astonished old family retainer who answered the bell. 

“They are, sor; but what name, please?” 

“Moulton, Mr. Thomas Moulton; but wait a moment, 
Fll send in my card.” 

While the gentleman was getting at his card-case, the old 
servant was eyeing him suspiciously. “I’m thinking, sor,” 
she hazarded, “that it would be important business that 
would bring anyone here at such an hour as this.” 

“It is important. Ah, here it is,” said the gentleman, 
handing the old lady the card, and at the same time ad- 
vancing as if to enter the door, which had as yet been 
opened just wide enough to admit of the interchange of the 
challenge of the sentinel on duty and the answer of the 
person challenged. “Here, what does this mean?” asked 
the gentleman, as the door was rudely shut in his face. 

“You’ll wait where ye are,” answered the old woman to 
herself, as she trotted off with the card to summon the 
ladies. About as soon as the door was closed, however, it 
was re-opened by the young lady of the house, who had 
evidently been an unseen witness of all that had taken 
place. “I beg a thousand pardons, Mr. Moulton,” she said, 
as she politely ushered the gentleman into the house, “we 
are so unaccustomed to receiving visitors that our servants 
have forgotten their manners. Walk in, sir, and take a seat 
in the library, if you please ; while I call mamma.” 

The old servant, still somewhat undecided as to trusting 
a stranger under such suspicious circumstances, now en- 
tered the room to turn up the gas, and stir the fire. This 
she did so leisurely as to occupy the whole of the time in- 


5 


66 


PATRICK DURBAR 


tervening between the exit of Miss Helena Murphy and the 
entrance of that young lady accompanied by her mother. 
After an exchange of the usual courtesies, the final depart- 
ure of the servant, and the closing of the door, Mr. Moul- 
ton cleared his voice, and assuming a judicial air, began 
to explain to the ladies the nature of the business which 
had brought him to their house : 

“I have received a communication from our friends in 
London, ” he began, “ahem, Messrs. Griggs and Dobson, 
solicitors, of Gray’s Inn, announcing the fact of their hav- 
ing discovered the heir of the late Patrick Dunbar.” 

Here the old gentleman paused a moment, to watch the 
effect of this important declaration upon his audience. 
As far as the younger lady was concerned, he looked in 
vain. She had been as unmoved as a marble statue before 
the announcement; she remained so after it. With the 
older lady it was different. A look of disappointment came 
into her eyes; as if one more hope, the last one, had been 
taken out of her life. 

“Not only,” Mr. Moulton went on, “have they found 
the heir ; but they have found the will also. Further than 
this, the young man, a nephew of the late Patrick Dunbar, 
and of the same name, has produced a letter of his uncle’s 
referring to transactions between him and your late hus- 
band, Mrs. Murphy, mentioning his name, and speaking 
of matters well within my own knowledge and memory, as 
his lawyer. In fact, as far as I can see, every possible point 
in the chain of evidence going to prove the legitimacy of 
the young man’s claim to the estate seems to have been 
fully covered ; and I see no other course left open for us to 
pursue than to hand over the property to the claimant.” 

“Well, God’s will be done,” said the widow. “Although 
it takes the roof from over the heads of two lonely women, 
I am glad the true heir has been found. What is the next 
step to be taken, Mr. Moulton?” 


PATRICK DURBAR 


67 


“Some legal formalities have still to be gone through 
with, my dear Mrs. Murphy; and, dealing as we have the 
good fortune to do, with people, ahem, of the very highest 
standing in London, I can assure you that every courtesy 
and consideration will be extended to yourself and Miss 
Helena, and your convenience studied in every way.” 

“As the blow has fallen at last, mamma,” said Helena, 
quietly, “we may as well bow before it now as at any other 
time; and I, for one, should prefer moving out of this 
gloomy old place at once, and giving it up to its proper 
owners.” 

“Yes, I know, Helena,” said the widow, sadly, “young 
people break away from past associations more easily than 
we old ones do; but, perhaps you are right.” 

“There is a postscript or additional clause to the letter 
I have received,” broke in Mr. Moulton just here, “which 
expresses the deep concern of the heir, Mr. Patrick Dun- 
bar, at any inconvenience he may cause you by reason of his 
coming into his property, and a request that you will ac- 
cept a sufficient sum from the estate, before handing it over 
to him, to render both of you ladies comfortable for life. 
But, as a person cannot very well give away what he has 
not yet received, and, as this may be only a polite way of 
easing his conscience in taking from you an estate you 
could so easily have appropriated to your own use, I fear 
we can hardly count upon it as being of any practical assist- 
ance to us.” 

“Not one cent of it for me,” said Helena, proudly. “I 
had rather starve first.” 

“Don’t say that, my dear,” said her mother, “it was kind- 
ly meant, this offer, I feel perfectly sure ; and we can hard- 
ly afford to be proud, situated as we are.” 

“I can,” returned the young lady. “I can work to sup- 
port us both, as long as I have my health and strength ; and 


68 


PATRICK DURBAR 


I should far rather work than to be beholden to this young 
man; this Patrick Dunbar.” 

"Well,” said Mr. Moulton, “as the home you now occupy 
could only be taken away from you ii* order to make good 
a deficiency, and as the deficiency could only be ascertained 
as the result of a long and involved investigation of the es- 
tate accounts, I think we may leave that matter for future 
discussion. In the meantime, of course, you can gain time, 
and probably a good deal of time, in handing over the es- 
tate, if so disposed, by putting the claimant to the strictest 
legal proof. In such a case, a suit would have to be begun 
to dispossess you, interrogatories filed, commissioners ap- 
pointed to take testimony, witnesses looked up and ex- 
amined, the genuineness of signatures ascertained, and a 
thousand and one legal obstructions overcome; which, con- 
sidering all the circumstances of the case, would of necessity 
take much time and call for the expenditure of a vast 
amount of money on the part of the claimant.” 

“And on ours, as well?” suggested the widow. 

“Undoubtedly, Mrs. Murphy. You can neither bring nor 
defend law suits without money. Of course, one way to 
effect an amicable settlement, which might have the result 
of leaving yourself and Miss Murphy in possession of a 
good slice of the estate, would be to threaten to stand suit. 
But, as the claimant frankly and freely offers you this 
substantial slice of the property before such a course on 
your part has even been hinted at, it would hardly appear 
either necessary or wise to adopt it.” 

“You have no possible doubt in your own mind as to the 
justice of this young man’s claim, have you?” asked Helena. 

“Not the slightest; Miss Murphy.” 

“And a suit brought against my mother and myself would 
prevail in due time.” 

“In my opinion, yes ; beyond a doubt.” 

“What was it you said just now about the young man’s 


PATRICK DUNBAR 69 

being unable to give away what he had not already re- 
ceived ?” 

“Simply, that to act upon his undoubtedly well-meant 
instructions to retain a sufficient part of the estate to make 
you ladies comfortable would not be the way in which we 
lawyers would go to work in such a matter. We are com- 
pelled to construe such requests in a legal way; for the 
protection of all parties. It would complicate to an emi- 
nent degree the settlement of this present matter, for in- 
stance, for us to endeavor to literally carry out such a 
program. There is an as yet undecided question whether 
or no your late father died owing his former partner money. 
In order to settle the matter, a huge amount of investiga- 
tion must be had ; investigation which, after the long lapse 
of time that has intervened, would be extremely difficult 
and expensive. After the matter had been settled, one way 
or the other, and the estate, plus or minus the possible de- 
ficiency, handed over to the claimant, then, he, the claim- 
ant, if he had not changed his mind in the mean time, 
might return you and your mother as much or as little of 
the estate as he saw fit. Do I make myself clear ?” 

“Perfectly, Mr. Moulton; but, supposing for the sake 
of argument, that my mother and I saw fit to do as she 
just now suggested, that is, to put our pride in our pocket 
and accept the young man’s offer, how would the matter be 
brought about to overcome all the objections you have just 
stated ?” 

“Simply by requesting him, through his lawyers, to 
legally waive any right to an accounting of any kind, and 
to accept the estate just as you and your mother hand it 
over to him. All this would have to be reduced to writing, 
of course, and witnessed before the proper authorities in 
England, and the agreement, or a certified copy of it, filed 
both here and in London. All of this could undoubtedly be 
accomplished, if the claimant earnestly means what he 


70 


PATRICK DURBAR 


says. If, as I have my suspicions, he does not exactly mean 
what he says, why then any request on our parts to have 
him put his polite and kind offer into legal form could only 
excite both his and his lawyers’ suspicions that we have 
something to conceal; or, that, in other words, we had 
reason to fear an investigation; which is not the case.” 

"I see,” said Helena. “It appears to resolve itself into 
a question of what kind of a young man this Patrick Dun- 
bar is.” 

“Precisely, Miss Helena.” 

“And, I suppose you really know nothing whatever about 
him, except what these London lawyers say about him. 
What do they say, by the way?” 

“Absolutely nothing ; except as to the carrying out of his 
wishes in regard to delivering his message to you. If you 
wish the exact words I will read them to you.” Here the 
old gentleman adjusted his glasses, took a letter from his 
pocket, and taking it to the light, read as follows; “Mr. 
Patrick Dunbar charges us with a message to your clients 
which we endeavor to transcribe as nearly as possible in 
his own words; he says: “please convey to those brave 
ladies in New York my most respectful salutations, and 
say to them that I absolutely refuse to accept the inherit- 
ance which seems to be mine by right, until their wants 
have been fully and amply provided for; and I am sure 
that my mother and sisters will take the same view of the 
matter.” 

“Ah, and here is something I have overlooked,” said the 
lawyer, carefully studying the letter, “and that I will 
cheerfully sign any paper, or take any action to carry out 
this end.” 

“Ahem,” said the old fellow, removing his glasses, and 
folding up the letter. This alters the case materially. 
It seems he is willing, or says he is, to execute the proper 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


7 1 

papers. Well, we’ll put him to the test; that’s all. Leave 
this matter to me, ladies, and hope for the best.” 

At this, as the hour was getting late, Mr. Moulton said 
good evening to Mrs. Murphy and Helena, and took his 
departure. 

********* 

When the two parties to a controversy are inclined to be 
perfectly fair and reasonable in their demands, the task of 
bringing about an accommodation is an easy one. Where 
both parties are not only reasonable, but generous ; the task 
becomes a pleasure. So it was in the present instance. The 
disinterested nobility of Helena and her mother, in the first 
instance, had acted upon the nobility inherent in our young 
friend, Patrick Dunbar, which in time had reacted upon 
and influenced every move that was made from his side 
of the controversy, to such an extent that at times the set- 
tlement was in apparent danger of falling to the ground, 
not from the excess of his solicitude for his own interests, 
but for those of the brave women who had been willing to 
give up the very roof that sheltered them in their desire to 
see him come by his own. In a surprisingly short time, 
therefore, considering the difficulties which might easily 
have attended the settlement, the estate was handed over to 
Dunbar’s solicitors in London ; while the old homestead, to- 
gether with an income quite sufficient for their modest 
wants, was settled upon Mrs. and Miss Murphy. Everyone 
appeared to be satisfied with the turn matters had taken 
from the start; Dunbar and his family, because they were 
elevated by it from comparative poverty to opulence; Mrs. 
Murphy and Helena, because, from uncertainty and fear 
for the future, they now were possessed of a certain provi- 
sion for their lives; Dobson, because he now had a very 
large estate in his hands, which it would be his own fault 
if he didn’t keep there to his own advantage for many 
years to come; Moulton, because he was sincerely glad to 


72 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


see the widow and daughter of a very worthy man so com- 
fortably provided for; and, finally, Grow, who, for reasons 
of his own, was satisfied with what had been and was likely 
to be his share of the windfall so providentially thrown in 
his way. 

And now, having despatched the business which took us 
to New York, to our entire satisfaction, we will, allowing 
time, of course, for the reader to pack his or her belongings 
and say good-by to the friends made in New York, take 
shipping again and return to dear old London. 
********* 

After coming into his estate, Patrick Dunbar did a very 
sensible thing: he immediately retired from business. He 
had seen, even in his short business career, enough of the 
pitfalls of commercial life in the City of London to firmly 
impress it upon his mind that now, being more than com- 
fortably situated in the world, he had better keep out of it. 
So, he directed his solicitors to look out for good invest- 
ments for his loose money, to keep him at all times in- 
formed as to the state of his affairs, and, finally, to keep 
their eyes open for the purchase of a fine estate in the coun- 
try. The solicitors were Messrs. Griggs and Dobson. 

In due time, these gentlemen found a property in Devon- 
shire which seemed to answer all the requirements. Dun- 
bar accompanied by his mother and sisters, Alice and Mary, 
went down to see it. They all approving, it was purchased ; 
and the family took possession. Then came a period when 
Dunbar was fascinated with the occupation of improving 
his country seat. He went at it with a lavish hand, and in 
time made it an earthly paradise. As time went on, he 
heard from his New York agents that his lands in that 
city had been and were rapidly increasing in value. So 
much so, indeed, that soon his income mounted from about 
thirty to about fifty thousand pounds. He then purchased 
a house in town, whither he and his family resorted for the 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


73 

season ; and, on the whole, matters could be said to be going 
very prosperously with Patrick Dunbar. 

There is a certain interdependence in human affairs, by 
reason of which when one of us is prosperous, our neigh- 
bor, in a greater or less degree, gets a benefit from it. A 
prosperous community is the aggregate of a number of 
prosperous individuals. My needs become your opportunity 
to supply those needs, and to prosper in doing so. All 
this is doubtless as it should be in social economics; but it 
is quite another matter to have a person or a number of 
persons living upon you unknown to you, and without giv- 
ing any return for it. This is called in America “having 
a side partner.” Our friend, Patrick Dunbar had had, 
from the moment of his having spoken of his affairs re- 
lating to his American estate, a “side,” or an unknown part- 
ner; and his name was Gow. 

We have already seen how this astute young man had put 
five thousand pounds into his pocket as a result of his hav- 
ing promised his influence in keeping Dunbar’s estate in 
Dobson’s hands. With this transaction as a departure, Gow 
had gone on rapidly increasing the already large aggre- 
gate of his indebtedness on bills of exchange. He had 
made it already appear to Dobson’s advantage for the 
latter to see the manager of his Bank, Brown, and speak a 
good word for him. As he could do this both from con- 
viction and because it was now of the greatest importance 
to himself to have Gow stand well with his Bankers, he 
had called upon Brown and confided to him what a val- 
uable man Gow could be made to both of them by rea- 
son of the influence he undoubtedly possessed over Patrick 
Dunbar. So impressed had Brown become by what Dob- 
son had said, that he practically now threw prudence to 
the winds, and began to discount for Gow upon a much 
larger scale than ever before. 


74 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


Now, although Gow was not by any means a farmer, 
one apothegm appertaining to the agricultural interest 
had deeply and duly impressed itself upon his mind; and 
that was the advisability of making hay while the sun 
shone. Carrying this beautiful rule of action from the 
harvest-field to the counting house, he now not only har- 
vested the land he had so assiduously tilled, but he began 
to look about him for new fields to, in due order, plough, 
plant and garner. To begin with, he had by no means 
cultivated the Dobson field to what he considered its full 
capacity. Having shared so much of Dobson’s confidence, 
it was easy to go on sharing it; and, as each event took 
place which brought the final consummation so devoutly 
wished by Dobson and himself to a successful issue, Gow 
not only knew of it, but knew how to use it in further- 
ing his own ends. When finally the estate had been 
handed over to Griggs and Dobson, and a very large sum of 
ready money on Dunbar’s account had come into their 
hands, his rapacity knew no bounds. Feeling perfectly 
safe now in urging demands which he knew Dobson was 
in no position to refuse, he practically was doing as he 
chose with Dunbar’s money, while making Dobson re- 
sponsible for the consequences; or fully intending to do 
so. He was, in a word, Dunbar’s “side” partner. 

Such relations as these exist between custodians of 
other people’s money in all the large money centres of 
the world. There is nothing new in it. It has been going 
on ever since money came into use. One class of men 
made it, another class took care of it for the first class; 
and still a third class, the speculators, generally succeeded 
in getting it from both the other two classes; and, ulti- 
mately, in losing it. The result of all this, as far as Gow 
was concerned, was that that young man was living in 
clover. Having no family, he required no very large es- 
tablishment; but he had of late developed tastes which 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


75 


called for quite as large an expenditure as a town and 
country house and all that they implied could have done. 
He went in for horses, women, and gambling; each and 
every one of them a sea in which a fortune a day could 
easily be swallowed up; and yet he kept them all three 
busily employed in swallowing at once. 

Gow’s pace had become so rapid by this time, and his 
air and manner so visibly affected by it, that Dunbar, 
who for a long time had begun to have misgivings about 
the life he led, had now come to openly distrusting him, 
and to objecting to him for a companion; while Gow, on 
his side, either because his guilty conscience made it im- 
possible for him to enjoy the society of the man he was 
robbing, or because he found Dunbar altogether too slow 
for the pace he was keeping up, gradually sought other 
and much less desirable companions. 


CHAPTER VI. 


Some two years after Patrick Dunbar came into his prop- 
erty, he was about to enter his house, one evening, when 
a woman who had evidently been waiting for the purpose, 
accosted him. At a glance, he recognized in her the poor 
creature he had once assisted, as narrated in a preceding 
chapter. 

"May I say a word to you, sir?” she asked respectfully. 

"Certainly you may,” responded Dunbar. "Is there any- 
thing I can do for you?” 

"No, nothing; but there is something I can do for you. 
You don’t remember me, I dare say, but I remember you; 
and the time has come when I can repay the kindness you 
rendered me some years ago. But perhaps you would 
hardly care to be seen talking to me here?” 

Dunbar’s house was in Portland Place. It was but a step 
to Regents’ Park. There being an earnestness in the woman’s 
manner which excited his curiosity, as well as from his 
natural courtesy, he wished to hear what she had to say. 
So he suggested that they take a turn in the park. It 
was in the early summer, and although the day was clos- 
ing in, there was sufficient light remaining in which to 
carefully scrutinize the features of the woman walking by 
his side. She was dressed as when he had last seen her, 
modestly, had a retiring, almost diffident manner, which 
only seemed to assert itself at the call of some strongly 
impelling motive. Making due allowance for the time 
which had elapsed since he had last seen her, she had 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


77 


aged out of proportion to it. She had a troubled and 
careworn look in her face, as if the world had fared but 
indifferently with her; but, for all that, there were still 
remaining traces, not only of beauty, but of a sensitive re- 
finement which stamped her indelibly as a woman of 
gentle birth. Selecting a path in which they were hardly 
likely to be disturbed, Dunbar now listened to what she 
had to say. 

“You remember, sir, that you gave me your name at my 
request, when last we met. I felt at the time one of those 
premonitions, or call them what you will, which told 
me we should meet again. London is a big place; but cer- 
tain circles in it are very small, so small, in fact, that 
an item of news or of scandal repeated at one part of it 
very soon gets round to where it started from. A short 
time ago, in a certain company, names need not be men- 
tioned just yet, I heard your name spoken: Patrick Dun- 
bar. The speaker was a man I knew, and had every 
reason to know as one of the cruelest, most heartless 
scoundrels in London; and that is saying a good deal. 
The man did not suspect my presence, and spoke freely. 
He could not by any possibility have known of any in- 
terest I might have in you, in any case. He spoke of your 
having lately come into a large property. This I already 
knew, as you had told me of it ; but he went on to divulge 
what appeared to me to be the most bare-faced and shame- 
ful conspiracy to rob you of all of it that could be got 
at. He 6poke of having a solicitor by the name of Dobson 
in his power; and, from what I was able to gather, this 
solicitor had some hold upon you, or had charge of some 
of your property. This part of the conversation I could 
neither hear nor understand, as well as the rest; but from 
what I could hear, I should say that the solicitor was as 
great a rascal as the speaker, and more than that, that he 
was in a very bad way himself. The general plan of the 


78 


PATRICK DURBAR 


conspiracy seemed to be to get this man Dobson to lend 
himself to some bill transactions by means of which all 
the parties to them should indirectly profit, while you 
would ultimately be compelled to stand the loss. In fact, 
from what was said, I should say that already matters 
had progressed so far that a crisis was likely to occur at 
almost any time; the scheme which I heard discussed 
being in the nature of an expedient for postponing it if 
possible, or of availing of it to the very fullest extent, if 
not. Now, sir, although my information is somewhat 
fragmentary, and, being a woman and unacquainted with 
business terms, I may have been unable to convey a correct 
or clear account of what I have heard, I am fully con- 
vinced that you are in great danger of being heavily in- 
volved in financial transactions of which you know noth- 
ing, and with a set of men who are certain to rob you, 
if they can.” 

As the woman proceeded with her story, Dunbar could 
not help being impressed with the evident sincerity and 
truthfulness of what she had said. There was no effort at 
exaggeration, and an absence of any attempt at dramatic 
effect which was especially convincing. Then again, she 
had mentioned the name of his solicitor. She could not 
by any means have imagined that piece of corroborative 
evidence. She went on : 

“As soon as I heard all this, I determined to warn you at 
any cost. I should have preferred to do so by some other 
means than that which I have adopted ; but, if I have done 
wrong, I trust you will forgive me. I did not wish to en- 
trust so important a matter as this to paper ; and , I did not 
wish to waste any time.” 

“When did all this occur ?” asked Dunbar. 

“Three days ago. I spent a day or two in finding your 
address, and in deciding as to the best means of reaching 
you.” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


79 


Dunbar was silent for a few moments, as if determining 
what steps it was desirable to take; and, incidentally, how 
far it was either dignified or safe to discuss his private 
affairs with a stranger. There was something, however, 
in the woman’s voice and manner so suggestive of loyalty, 
of gratitude, of entire faith in him and his interpretation 
of her attitude towards him, that he was completely dis- 
armed. Then again, the remembrance of his last inter- 
view with this woman was fresh in his mind, and how 
she had insisted upon taking a good look at him in order 
that she might know him again. Unconsciously to him- 
self, perhaps, all this had had a deep effect upon him; as 
such things often do. Then, there was something in the 
woman herself that interested him. There was a story, a 
sad one, beyond a doubt, connected with her life. Her 
whole attitude negatived any possible assumption that she 
had come to him in forma pauperis. That she had his 
good at heart, and that he stood in some great danger had 
become perfectly clear to him; the question was how to 
proceed, and as to whether or no the services of this 
woman would be the best means to employ in protecting 
himself against his secret enemies. 

“You still wish to keep the name of the principal con- 
spirator a secret?” he asked. 

“I should prefer to; yes.” answered the woman, color- 
ing perceptibly, as if Dunbar had touched upon a sore 
spot in her consciousness. “And my reason for doing so 
is this”: she went on, “Supposing by any remote chance 
I have made a mistake, or have been intentionally misled, 
for some purpose of which I am ignorant, the matter need 
go no farther than it has ; and I shall not have opened up 
a tale of injustice and cruelty relating to myself alone, 
long since set at rest. Once having connected any names 
with the affair, it would be impossible either to recall them, 
or to resist the logical sequence of going on and relating 


8o 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


the circumstances under which I came to know the man 
whose name you wish me to disclose ; all of which I should 
prefer to avoid.” 

“Yes, but how am 1 to protect myself against enemies 
whose names I do not even know ?” 

“It seems to me, sir, that you could commence with the 
man whose name I have given you, Mr. Dobson. Do you 
know him, and have you any relations with him?” 

“Unfortunately, yes. He’s my solicitor.” 

“He is?” asked the woman in evident alarm, “Then, 
sir, you may rest assured that if so much of the informa- 
tion is correct, the rest is.” 

“If I will mention the name of the person you con- 
sider to be the arch conspirator, will you tell me whether 
I am right or wrong?” asked Dunbar. 

The woman hesitated a few moments, as if struggling 
against a strong impulse of some kind ; but finally 
answered: “Yes, on one condition; and that is, that for 
the present, at least, you will not ask me how I came to 
know this man.” 

“I consent to your condition, of course. I have no 
possible right or inclination to pry into your private af- 
fairs. Is the man’s name Sidney Gow?” 

“Yes,” said the woman, with a frightened look, as if 
in speaking that one little word she had closed the door 
for any possibility of a retreat behind her. 

“I thought so,” said Dunbar, quietly. “And now, my 
friend, he went on impressively, “as you neither give me 
nor do I ask you for any other name by which to call you, 
fate seems to have thrown us together at an opportune 
time. I have suspected for a long time that things were 
not altogether right with my friend Gow. What you have 
said confirms my suspicions. You have proved your friend- 
ship by coming to warn me of this danger, and I am going 
to confide in you. I am afraid that by going to Dobson 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


8l 


and demanding an explanation from him, armed with the 
very slender evidence I have in my possession at present, 
I should only put all of these conspirators on their guard, 
and precipitate the very crisis we are anxious to avert. 
Now, what would be your way of going to work at this mat- 
ter?” 

“I am only a woman, sir, and any advice I can give you 
will be only a woman’s way of looking at an affair which 
concerns men alone; and, for that reason, of, I fear, very 
little value. I should take a woman’s way of coming 
at the facts in this case, just as I have already done. It 
may be beneath your dignity as a man to put yourself in 
a position to overhear a conversation between men who 
are engaged in plotting your destruction. It would not 
be beneath mine.” 

“Yes, but how could I manage this part of your plan, 
supposing I was inclined to follow your adivce?” 

“If you wish to be placed in a position to hear this con- 
spiracy discussed in all its details, I think I can find 
you the opportunity. I know the haunts of these men 
pretty well. They will in all probability meet this very 
evening at a small Italian eating-house near Leicester 
Square. It is an unknown place amongst the majority of 
the fashionable men of the town, but noted amongst a 
certain set for its good Italian cooking; and especially for 
its Italian wines. As the dining room is arranged in al- 
coves, as many of the older fashioned London eating- 
houses are, it would be a comparatively easy matter to se- 
cure the compartment next to the one these men generally 
occupy. It was at this place, and in this manner that I 
learned the facts I have already revealed to you.” 

Dunbar looked at his watch. It was about seven o’clock. 
His own dinner would be served at half-past seven; thus 
allowing him ample time to go home and excuse himself 
to his family, and then take a cab to Leicester Square. But 


82 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


there were difficulties in the way. In the first place, he 
was well-known to Gow; and to go to the place in propria 
persona would be to defeat the very object he had in view. 
Then to go alone would be almost equally futile, as he was 
unacquainted with the surroundings, and would be un- 
able to so place himself in the compartment as to accom- 
plish his purpose. Besides these objections was the nat- 
ural repugnance which an honorable man would feel at 
playing the part of eavesdropper, even as a means of sav- 
ing himself from an impending danger. While all these 
thoughts were rapidly passing through his mind, the 
woman was critically watching him, as if with no very 
great difficulty reading what was going on in his mind. At 
last, she spoke: 

“Don’t let me influence you in this matter, sir; but, for 
future guidance in case you do wish to avail yourself of the 
information I have given, or rather, to add to it by your 
own personal observation, let me give you the name and 
address of the restaurant at which these men meet. It may 
be of service to you in more ways than one.” 

Here she asked Dunbar for his note-book, in which she 
carefully inscribed not only the address of the eating- 
house in question, but made a rough diagram of the place, 
by means of which he could easily secure a position from 
which a conversation in a certain alcove could be over- 
heard. As an additional precaution, she also gave an 
address which would always find her, and appointed the 
eating-house in Leicester Square as a permanent rendezvous, 
in case for any reason she considered it important to see 
Dunbar; in which case a wire, with the simple word 
“Come,” was to indicate that she would be found at this 
place within a hour or so after his probable receipt of the 
telegram. After making this arrangement, she was about 
to take her departure, when Dunbar took his purse from 
his pocket; and, with as much delicacy as such an offer 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


83 

could possibly be made, asked the woman if she stood in 
need of money. Her reply was, as on the occasion of their 
former meeting, at first, an indignant look, which soon 
changed into an expression of sorrow, as she said: “No; at 
present I want for nothing ; and I came to give you informa- 
tion, not to sell it.” 

Then, before Dunbar could protest, she had turned and 
was walking rapidly toward the exit from the park, which, 
as Dunbar followed her, was now being closed for the 
night. Dunbar hailed a cab, and requesting the driver to 
pull up at his house in Portland Place for a moment, no- 
tified his family that he should not be home for dinner; 
and then re-embarking in his cab, proceeded down Port- 
land Place and Regent Street in the direction of Leices- 
ter Square. Not having seen or been seen by Gow for some 
time, and being now in a part of the town in which the 
latter would hardly be on the lookout for him, Dunbar had 
intended to enter the eating-house in question, secure the 
alcove he wanted and begin his dinner before the men 
whose conversation was likely to prove interesting to him 
had arrived. But, in passing the top of the Hay market, 
his eye fell upon a small costumer’s shop, and the idea oc- 
curred to enter the place for the purpose of obtaining 
some slight disguise. So, he stopped the driver, and 
alighting from his cab, paid and dismissed the man, saying 
that he would walk the rest of the way. When the man 
was out of sight he went into the shop, with considerable 
reluctance, as if he were playing a part entirely new to 
him, and one for which he had no relish. The proprietor, 
a fussy, important, little man, came forward to ask him 
how he could serve. 

“I am looking for a slight disguise; something just 
enough to change my appearance sufficiently to escape the 
attention of a person who is familiar with my ordinary 


84 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


appearance, but who is not expecting to see me/’ said Dun- 
bar. 

The man looked at him half suspiciously, with an air as 
much as to say: “I’ve heard that story before”; but 
answered, “Ah, yes, sir, a moustache would answer the 
purpose, I think. This way, sir, if you please.” And he 
conducted him into a small room at the rear of the shop, 
where, in glass cases and hung upon the walls, were all 
kinds of false whiskers, moustaches, monocles, walking 
sticks, imitation jewelry, hats, caps, mufflers, various cos- 
tumes, military uniforms, and even a policeman’s tunic 
and helmet. Eequesting Dunbar to take a chair before a 
mirror, he deftly rearranged his hair and touched up his 
face with a little paint, so as in an incredibly short time 
to very materially change his appearance; and then, care- 
fully selecting a moustache from the glass case, adjusted 
it upon the young man’s face. Then, he untied Dunbar’s 
neckwear and completely rearranged it, in the twinkling of 
an eye. Last of all, he took from the case a monocle, and 
requesting Dunbar to put it into his eye, motioned him to 
look at himself in the glass. The effect was magical. Dun- 
bar hardly recognized himself. Then, the man, who was 
evidently an artist in his way, showed him how to carry 
himself to suit his changed appearance, and the trans^ 
formation was complete. “There, sir, that will do for any- 
thing in the way of light disguise, and in dealing with 
anyone but an expert in such matters, or a person who is 
really looking for you. In many cases, even then, sir, a 
slight disguise is better than an elaborate one; as an ex- 
pert is generally expecting a man who isn’t an expert to 
overdo the matter. If you should ever require anything in 
our line, ahem, a little more complete, sir; we shall be 
glad to serve you. Two guineas, sir; if you please.” 

Dunbar paid the money, feeling that it had been well 
earned; and left the shop. To Leicester Square was but 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


85 

a step, and he entered the eating-house just as the church 
bell of St. Martin in the Fields was striking eight o’clock. 
The place was filling up; but Dunbar, while appearing 
to be selecting an alcove to his liking, had an opportunity 
of finding out by a careful inspection of the place that the 
one which he understood was usually reserved for Gow and 
his friends was still unoccupied; as was the one adjoining 
it. He took a seat in the latter and occupied himself with 
looking over the evening paper until the waiter should 
come to take his order. Almost immediately, a man who 
was a stranger to him came and took possession of Gow’s 
alcove. Although Dunbar had not been able to take a 
good look at him, he thought he was a young lord Yennor, 
whom Gow had once pointed out to him as being a friend 
of his. 

The waiter now made his appearance, and Dunbar gave 
his order. Hardly had the man gone to execute it, when 
Gow entered the room. Dunbar’s seat commanded the 
front door, and now he waited to see what Gow would do. 
Feeling pretty confident in his disguise, he took no es- 
pecial pains to conceal himself, as he might have done by 
pretending to be absorbed in his newspaper. So, as Gow, 
passed his alcove, he returned the rather ill-bred and 
searching glance his former friend gave him, and not a 
sign of recognition appeared upon Gow’s face. 

“Hello, Vennor,” he heard Gow say, carelessly, as he took 
his seat, “been here long?” 

“No, just sat down. I didn’t order until you came, so 
let’s call the waiter.” 

This was done, and a very elaborate order given. By this 
time Dunbar’s dinner was before him, and he began his re- 
past. He listened to a few commonplaces between the 
men in the box next his own, until the waiter had fin- 
ally disappeared, and then Gow said : “And now, my lord, 
to business. We’ve got to act quickly and be damned sharp 


86 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


in every way, or we’ll lose the trick. Dobson’s turning 
very crusty.” 

“Ah,” responded Gow’s friend, “what’s up?” 

“Well, to begin with, Dobson says Dunbar’s beginning to 
ask altogether too many questions about his affairs. Of 
course, it may be his own guilty conscience that accuses 
him, but he thinks not. You see, Dunbar’s one of those 
methodical fellows who wants to know the reason for 
everything. Has a great idea of his business ability, just 
because he was brought up in a city stock-broker’s office. 
Talks of making his own investments after this, and all 
that sort of thing. Dobson says the next thing he’ll ask 
will be for an accounting, and then the fat will be in the 
fire, for you and I know pretty well what has become of all 
of Dunbar’s loose money; and, if I’m not mistaken, of a 
lot of his securities as well.” 

“Yes,” said Yennor, “I think we know something about 
that ; but what’s the plan of campaign?” I’m absolutely 
full up at my Bankers. I couldn’t get another bill done 
if it were endorsed, well, by any one the least likely to 
endorse it. You tell me you are in about the same fix ; so 
what’s to be done?” 

“I’ve been thinking it all over, Yennor ; and there’s only 
one thing to relieve the situation, and that is, Dobson must 
take the remaining securities of Dunbar’s he has in his 
hands, and make a loan upon them; trusting to luck to 
some day being able to replace them when times get bet- 
ter; which they’re sure to do, I tell him. Now, naturally, 
Dobson don’t like to do this, as he says he may be called 
upon for an accounting at any moment. I suggested his 
accepting some more bills, but he says his name has been so 
blown upon by this time that they could not be discounted 
anywhere, except at the very highest Jew rates, which would 
be injurious, if it got noised about.” 

“Well, what does he propose ?” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


87 

“Up to this time, he absolutely refuses to dip into Dun- 
bar’s securities to the extent of another penny ; but 
whether it is that he wants them for his own use, and 
doesn’t propose to let us have any benefit from them, isn’t 
quite so clear. At any rate, I hold the whip end with him, 
and he knows it. I have threatened to put Dunbar on his 
track, if he doesn’t disgorge; which, of course, I shouldn’t 
do ; but it may produce the desired effect to hold the threat 
over him.” 

“I’m afraid Dobson’s too tough an old bird to be easily 
frightened, Gow.” 

“Perhaps so; but, at any rate, matters can’t go on as 
they are going now for much longer. My Bankers have 
absolutely refused to renew another bill for me. Dob- 
son can’t help me, as he’s in a worse hole than I’m in ; and 
you are at the end of your rope also, as far as I can see. 
I tell you, Vennor, we’re on the edge of a crisis; and 
something’s got to be done, or we’ll all be in Queer street 
together.” 

“It’s well enough to say over and over again, ‘Some- 
thing’s got to be done’; but for God’s sake, man, give us 
an idea, and we’ll put our heads together and see if it can 
be carried out. I’m desperate, I’m willing to admit; and 
I’ll do anything in reason, or out of reason, to get out of 
the position I’m in.” 

Then followed a conversation in so low a key that Dun- 
bar was unable to hear distinctly what was said, although 
he felt certain he heard his own name mentioned several 
times. At last, feeling that he had heard all he was likely 
to hear, and not caring to run any possible risk of an- 
other scrutinizing gaze from Gow, he rang for the waiter, 
paid his bill, and passed out into the street. 

It being still early in the evening, Dunbar set out to 
walk home. His route led him through Piccadilly Circus 
and up Regent Street. As he passed along through the 


88 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


busy throng of night hawks of both sexes that infest that 
vicinity during the early hours of the evening, he was 
too intent upon his own affairs to be much interested in 
what was going on about him. To a man, and especially 
a young man, one unaccustomed to the shifty methods to 
which desperate men resort to make a living, all he had 
heard this evening, beginning with the warning of the 
mysterious woman, and ending with what he had been a 
witness to at the eating-house, came as a revelation almost 
too improbable to be true. But, unfortunately, a man can- 
not impeach the credibility of his own senses, and he had 
both heard and seen enough to convince him that he stood 
upon the very edge of a serious disaster. Just how to act; 
or where or when to begin to act, he could hardly make 
up his mind. The crisis had come upon him too suddenly 
to permit a free and unembarrassed action of the mind. 
He felt a sense of mental numbness quite to be expected on 
the part of an inexperienced man unexpectedly called upon 
to face an emergency which would put to the severest test 
the courage and diplomacy of a veteran. The first steps 
seemed to be to prevent Dobson from playing any further 
havoc with his money and valuable securities; but how to 
effectually accomplish this, was by no means a question 
easy of solution. Should he call upon him, take him by 
surprise the next morning, and demand a settlement and 
the restoration of his property already misappropriated, 
or should he send a lawyer? If the latter, whom should 
he send ? A simple-minded, honest young fellow like him- 
self had no acquaintance amongst the legal profession, what 
need had he of such a connection? London solicitors, the 
good ones, are somewhat difficult of approach. You can- 
not rush wildly into the first office over which you see 
the word “Solicitor” written, and lay your case before him. 
If he is a man whom it would be safe for you to trust, 
he demands to know whether it is safe to trust you ; and he 


PATRICK DURBAR 


89 

requires an introduction. The man to whom Dunbar would 
naturally apply for such an introduction had now become 
his most dangerous enemy; Gow, the man who had intro- 
duced him to Dobson; who had turned out the shadiest of 
shady solicitors. No, that plan would not answer. No 
more solicitors for him, until they had been weighed in the 
balance and found reliable; but all this was a matter of 
time, and of much more time than he had to spare. What 
should he do? 

As he slowly turned into Regent Street, with his head 
bowed as if in deep meditation, and paying no more at- 
tention to passers-by than was required to avoid running 
against them, he suddenly became conscious of a man’s 
evidently being attracted by his appearance, and then care- 
lessly approaching him, as if endeavoring to either confirm 
or dispel a first impression he had received as to his iden- 
tity. The incident was over in an instant; as the man, 
whoever he was, having taken another rather furtive look 
at Dunbar — without the slightest sign of recognition, or in- 
deed of interest of any kind, fell behind him and was soon 
lost in the crowd. But, as Dunbar passed Oxford Circus, 
and came to the upper portion of Regent Street, where the 
crowd was much less dense, he was somewhat surprised to 
catch an instantaneous glimpse of the man, as he crossed 
over from the east to west side of the street. The idea 
that he was being followed did not occur to him even then ; 
but his attention was put upon the alert; and, in the deep 
shadows of the Langham Hotel, as he turned into Portland 
Place, he partly turned his head and became satisfied now 
that for some unknown reason his newly acquired friend 
took a deep personal interest in him, which he was de- 
termined to follow up. Disquieting as all this might have 
proved to a man of evil conscience, it produced no further 
effect upon our honest young friend than any trivial street 
incident in which he was indirectly interested might have 


go 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


had. In fact, he was far too much engrossed in his own 
affairs just then to have paid any especial attention to any 
incident of less proportions than one threatening injury 
to life or limb, as he proceeded on his way. Portland Place 
being an almost deserted street for pedestrians at night, 
it became a matter of much greater difficulty, evidently, 
for his unknown friend to follow him without being seen. 
At any rate, Dunbar was dimly conscious of the man’s 
suddenly disappearing at intervals beneath the dark 
shadows of the buildings, and of his emerging again, as if 
fearful of losing the object of his pursuit by allowing too 
much space to intervene between them. As Dunbar lived 
pretty well at the head of the street nearest Regent’s Park, 
this kind of manoeuvre went on until he had become quite 
interested in the adventure and determined to see it out. 

Arriving at last at his own house, he put his hand into 
his pocket to take out his latch-key, at the same time turn- 
ing his head to ascertain the position of his follower. To 
his surprise, the man was close behind him; and, as he 
slipped the key into the keyhole, he stepped briskly for- 
ward, and laying his hand upon his arm in no gentle man- 
ner, said in a half triumphant, half cynical voice: “Aha, 
Mr. Colfax, alias Dutton, alias Hewitt, alias God know’s 
what; I’ve caught you at last. You would keep at it until 
you were bowled over, wouldn’t you? Now, come along 
with me ; the more quietly the better for all parties. Come 
along, I say.” 

The latter request was made to induce Dunbar to do 
what just then he appeared to have the least intention in 
the world of doing ; namely, to accompany his somewhat ob- 
trusive friend. 

“Is this a practical joke you are playing upon me?” he 
asked. 

“Well, upon my word, you are a cool hand ; Colfax,” said 
the man, tightening his grasp upon Dunbar’s arm with 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


91 

one hand, while with the disengaged hand he suddenly 
seized his bunch of keys, and put them into his own pocket. 
This was quite a little too much over the punishable line 
of even a practical joke; and Dunbar, being no coward, 
struck the man violently in the face. The blow would un- 
doubtedly have stunned the man if he had not been on 
the look out for it; but, as it was, he partly avoided it, 
and now seized Dunbar with a strength and adroitness 
which left no possible doubt as to the fact that he was 
within the power of an officer of the law. 

“You shall pay dearly for that, my man,” said the 
detective, dragging him roughly from his own doorstep 
into the street. “And now, take my advice and come 
with me quietly; as neither you nor I shall gain anything 
by making a scene.” 

“I still don’t know what you want with me,” said Dun- 
bar, more quietly, but with firmness, “but this I tell 
you, if you are an officer of any kind, I shall make you 
pay far more dearly than you will make me, for this little 
pleasantry of yours. And now, give me back my keys and 
do not obstruct my passage into my own house a moment 
longer ; or you do so at your peril.” 

The man’s answer to this challenge was to approach the 
door and violently pull the door bell ; tightly holding Dun- 
bar by the arm as he did so. When the butler opened the 
door, the detective asked him: “Do you know this man? 
I’m an inspector from Scotland Yard.” 

“Never saw him before in my life, sir,” answered the 
butler, slamming the door most unceremoniously in his 
master’s face. 

Dunbar had completely forgotten his disguise. 


CHAPTEE VII. 


Although the saying: “One half of the world doesn’t 
know how the other half lives/’ is trite enough to be true ; 
there are certain phases of the life of the half of the 
world opposed to our own which one could hardly be ex- 
pected to know. For a perfectly innocent and right minded 
man to suddenly find himself within the clutches of the 
law, is one of them. The first impression upon Dunbar’s 
mind, as he came to a realization of the predicament he 
was in, was the humor of it all. To be arrested as he was 
entering his own house, to be denied by his own servant, 
and to be carried off to a police station upon a probable 
charge of attempted burglary upon his own premises; 
under slightly different conditions, would have been dis- 
tinctly humorous, no doubt; but, in the present instance, 
there were two considerations which rendered his present 
position rather awkward; first, he was in a disguise, the 
reason for which it would be somewhat difficult to satisfac- 
torily explain; and second, in the present state of his 
affairs any delay was particularly inopportune. There is, 
however, in human nature at large, and there certainly 
was in Dunbar’s nature, a sense of injustice at being falsely 
accused, which easily leads the victim of such an unfor- 
tunate circumstance into a sulky or defiant attitude which 
is calculated to inflame rather than to subdue the intensity 
of the ordeal through which he is called upon to pass. 
Feeling perfectly secure in the conviction that in the end 
the mistaken identity which had led to his arrest would 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


93 


be discovered, and the whole matter set right; and, at 
the same time, both from motives of pride, and because 
he did not care at present to explain the motives for 
his disguise, Dunbar made up his mind as he walked along 
with the officer to the police station to maintain the posi- 
tion of indignation and injured innocence he had inaugu- 
rated in his first encounter with the man. He had just 
arrived at this conclusion as they entered the police station 
in Portland Street. 

Here he was searched and all his belongings taken from 
him, his height and weight were taken; and he was form- 
ally charged, as he had expected to be, with an attempt at 
burglary. 

“What’s your name?” asked the sergeant, gruffly. 

“As our friend here has already given me several names 
which don’t belong to me,” answered Dunbar, moodily, 
“you may select any one of them you like best. I shall not 
help you out.” 

“Um,” said the sergeant, “inclined to be uppish, I see. 
Well then, what’s your address ; if you have any ?” 

“I supposed I lived in Portland Place; but as your 
highly intelligent agent here appears to object to my living 
there, why there’s nothing left for me to do but to move 
out; as far as I can see.” 

“In other words, you decline to answer my questions?” 
asked the sergeant. 

“I certainly refuse to go on suppplying you with infor- 
mation which you decline to accept as information; yes,” 
replied Dunbar. 

“Very well, my man; then there’s very little use in 
our going any further this evening. Take him away, J ones. 
By the way,” to Dunbar, “do you wish to send for any 
one ? Your solicitor, for instance ?” 

“No, not tonight.” 

Then he was taken to a very uncomfortable looking cell. 


94 


PATRICK DURBAR 


and locked up for the night. At first the unfortunate 
young man was so oppressed with a sense of humiliation 
and injustice that he was entirely unable to even think 
of sleep. But, as the dreary hours of the night dragged 
on, the fatigue and excitement through which he had 
passed, together with the anxiety in regard to his affairs, 
all combined to assist Nature in asserting her demands 
upon an honest young fellow possessed of a conscience en- 
tirely at rest; and he finally laid himself upon his hard 
plank bed and slept the sleep of the just. He was awakened 
by the sounds of life about him at an early hour in the 
morning, and soon an attendant came to his door and 
asked if he wished to send out for his breakfast; to which 
suggestion Dunbar assented, and soon he was supplied 
with a substantial meal. Then he was allowed to make 
such ablutions as the conveniences, or rather, the incon- 
veniences, of the place would admit; but here he met with 
some embarrassment : As far as he had been able to analyze 
his feelings or his intentions, the wish to conceal rather 
than to reveal his identity had been uppermost. The idea 
of his name getting into the newspapers as connected with 
such a masquerading enterprise as he had been engaged 
in was neither soothing to his vanity, nor would it be cal- 
culated to assist him in the delicate piece of business he 
had on hand in looking into his affairs. To remove his dis- 
guise was to open the eyes of his jailors to an entirely 
new condition of affairs, and to set them upon a new 
line of investigation. To allow matters to remain as 
they were, might prove equally puzzling to them; but, as 
they were bound to be puzzled in either case, perhaps this 
course would prove to be, from his own point of view, 
at least, the lesser horn of the dilemma. So he decided 
to continue his disguise; and, as his moustache and paint 
would hardly have resisted the application of water, he 
refrained from washing altogether. 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


95 


So, accoutred as he was, that is to say, in the naturally 
dishevelled condition in which a man would appear after 
a night spent as our friend had spent his, plus a very in- 
effectual and bedraggled disguise, he was taken to the 
police court in Marlborough Street. Here, while waiting 
for his turn to appear in court, he was thrust into a sub- 
terranean cell, which he spoke of afterwards as, “far from 
being abreast with the civilization of the times in which 
we live.” His turn came at last, and he ascended an 
iron spiral staircase, at the top of which he found him- 
self in a crowded and ill smelling court room, and in the 
presence of his accusers. 

“Prisoner, you are charged with an attempt at burglary. 
What do you plead to the charge ; guilty or not guilty ?” 

“Decidedly, not guilty,” said Dunbar, with difficulty re- 
straining himself from making a demonstration in court. 

Then the police inspector was called, and told his story. 
He had identified the prisoner as a very skilful and dan- 
gerous burglar, who went under several aliases; but was 
generally known as “Colfax!” “He had run against him 
in Piccadilly Circus the evening before, and had followed 
him to Portland Place; where he had caught him red- 
handed in the act of entering a fine house by means of a 
false slip-key. When arrested, the prisoner had violently 
assaulted him; and had pleaded the old and thread bare 
story of entering his own house.” 

“You, of course, took pains to ascertain that this was 
not true?” 

“Of course I did; your worship. I rang the door-bell 
and asked the butler who answered if he knew the prisoner ; 
and his answer was that he had never laid eyes upon him 
in his life. This man has played this game over and 
over again; your worship. He is a gentleman burglar. 
Gets himself up, as you see, in good clothing, and would 
pass anywhere as a gentleman returning home from the 


PATRICE DUNBAR 


96 

theatre. Opens the door of the house with a slip key, just 
as if he owned the place; and, if caught, actually says he 
does own it; as this man said last evening.” 

“And you positively identify him as the man Colfax? 
I see by the charge sheet that he refused to give his name 
and address last night.” 

“Yes, your worship, I positively identify him.” Then 
looking intently at Dunbar, he changed color, and said, in 
evident surprise; “I see, your worship, that the man is 
made up. He looks different by daylight, I admit; your 
worship. You can see, your worship, his face has been 
touched up, and I am inclined to think he has on a false 
moustache. Yes, I am sure he has ; your worship.” 

“So then, you don't absolutely identify him?” 

“Well, your worship, I should like to see him without his 
disguise; but, in any case, he was entering a house when 
I arrested him, and a house where he was not known, and 
had no right to enter. There can be no doubt about that. 
And , he assaulted me.” 

“Have you any explanation to make, prisoner?” 

“Hone ; none except what I made when this man arrested 
me. I said then that I was entering my own house. I say 
so now.” 

“Yes, but your disguise. A gentleman is hardly expected 
to be masquerading in the streets of London in paint and 
false whiskers without some object in view. The whiskers 
are false; are they not? I can distinctly detect the paint 
myself.” 

“Yes ; I had occasion, for purposes of my own, to assume 
a slight disguise. Is there any crime in that? I am 
charged, I believe, with an attempt at burglarly ; which is a 
very different affair, as I fancy your worship will ad- 
mit.” 

“Um, yes; but the disguise is a very suspicious circum- 
stance.” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


97 


“Very well, sir, if I am to be arrested, tried and con- 
victed on a suspicions circumstance, why I suppose I must 
submit to it; but I should doubt the legality of the pro- 
ceeding.” 

“Are you not represented by counsel?” 

“No, I am not.” 

“Why, may I ask?” 

“Because, from the suddenness of the arrest, I have had 
no opportunity of communicating with my solicitor. There 
are other reasons, also; but I prefer not to give them.” 

“Shall I assign you a solicitor?” 

“No, your worship. You have subjected me to the 
humiliation of an arrest upon an absolutely false charge, 
and I leave you to prove it. I have nothing else to say.” 

“You will compel me, I fear, to remand you for further 
inquiries ; which I should be loath to do, if you really have 
a satisfactory explanation at hand for your action in this 
affair.” 

“You will do as you see fit, sir; I have nothing further 
to say.” 

Then followed a somewhat protracted discussion be- 
tween the detective and the magistrate, in a low tone of 
voice, in which Dunbar felt satisfied that the inspector 
was getting the worst of it. A free and full explanation 
of the whole affair, he felt sure, would have saved him at 
this stage of the proceedings; but he did not wish to get 
into the newspapers under his own name, and he was 
both amused and indignant at the turn the affair had 
taken. At any rate, he decided to stand his ground; and 
he did. 

“Prisoner remanded for a week, for further inquiries,” 
announced the magistrate; and, in due time, Dunbar 
was escorted to the regions below, and locked in his cell 
to await the arrival of the prison van to take him away. 
After an hour or so, in which the business of the court 


7 


98 


PATRICK DURBAR 


was evidently being disposed of, he was taken from his 
cell, placed in the van with a number of more or less un- 
desirable looking people, and driven rapidly away. In due 
course, he was landed in Holloway, where he was locked up 
in a fairly comfortable cell to await the result of inquiries. 

To a man undergoing hi3 first experience of this kind, 
one of his first reflections is apt to be: “Could all of this 
have been avoided by a little different action on my part ?” 

To this question he was bound to answer: “Yes, it 
could.” But the answer brought him very little comfort. 
He had undoubtedly allowed his spleen to get the better 
of him; and he now began to regret it. He still abso- 
lutely refused to believe that the matter could have any 
but a speedy and a fortunate termination; but there was 
something very uncompromising and grim about those 
prison walls! To a man habitually accustomed to defer- 
ence and respect from his inferiors, it was far from pleasant 
to be treated as a criminal. He felt lonely and utterly out 
of the world in the silence and gloom of the place. Then, 
naturally, he was oppressed with anxiety on account of his 
family. They would doubtless be dreadfully alarmed at 
his unexplained absence. Finally, there were his affairs 
helplessly drifting upon the rocks, as the result of his 
untimely accident. At times he could almost have cried 
out with anxiety and vexation; but then the conviction 
of the futility of his doing so was forced back upon him. 
Who would take the trouble to answer him, if he did 
cry out? Thousands had come and gone in this miserable 
place, some to freedom, some to a long or a short term 
of imprisonment, some to death; and the outside world 
had not, and did not, apparently, trouble itself about the 
matter ! How much had he ever troubled himself or even 
thought of those poor wretches; some of them, doubtless, 
as innocent as himself, some not so; but all equally suf- 
ferers ? 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


99 

The day wore on absolutely uneventfully. He was given 
for his dinner a mixture called “suet pudding 75 ; not al- 
together unappetizing. For his supper, some dark colored 
bread. At night, a plank bed reared against the wall of 
his cell, was taken down; which, with a thin and not over 
luxurious mattress, constituted his bed. In the morning 
he had some porridge for breakfast, which he ate with a 
wooden spoon. No knife or fork were included in the 
menage. He was allowed a morning paper, but a hole in it 
in the portion allotted to police news indicated where some 
allusion to his own affair had been cut out. He was 
allowed a book from the prison library, and was given 
an hour’s walk in the yard; but there was very little 
comfort in it, as he was compelled to walk around and 
around a circumscribed course with a number of other 
prisoners, kept at a distance from each other which pre- 
cluded the possibility of conversation, and with officers on 
guard to see that the regulation was scrupulously carried 
out. 

After the walk each day, the prisoners were all drawn 
up in line at one side of the yard, while a large number of 
detectives in plain clothes passed by, carefully inspecting 
them to see if they could discover any familiar faces 
amongst them. After this, a number of the prisoners 
were called out of the ranks to be more closely inspected 
and questioned by these officers. 

For the first two or three days, Dunbar refrained from 
disturbing his false moustache as far as possible; but, as 
time wore on, the inconvenience and the lack of cleanli- 
ness incident to keeping up his very thin disguise induced 
him at last to entirely discard it. He therefore pulled off 
the false hair which had been attached to his upper lip 
by some kind of glue, and indulged in the luxury of the 
first really complete wash-up he had enjoyed for days. As 
his prison equipment did not include a mirror, he was 


100 


PATRICK DURBAR 


unable to see the change that this had made in his personal 
appearance; but, he became conscious of it when, after his 
walk in the yard that day, and the inspection by the plain- 
clothes men, he heard his name, or rather his number 
called out. Upon being assigned to his room on the day 
of his arrival, he had been handed a yellow disc of heavy 
woolen cloth with a letter indicating the wing of the in- 
stitution his room was in, and a number designating the 
room, which was buttoned upon his coat flap. His ticket 
read A. 9. 4. ; and now, hearing this substitute for a name 
called out, he answered the summons, and soon found him- 
self face to face with his old friend the detective ; in another 
part of the yard. 

“So, you have concluded to come out into the open, at 
last, have you?” said the man, giving him a very search- 
ing look, “Come, now, what is the use of sulking any 
longer. Tell us who you are and what’s your little game ? 
Its far the wisest thing for you to do.” 

“For a man so cock-sure of my name as you were the 
other day, it seems to me that you are the person to speak 
and not I. At any rate, I decline to talk with you; and 
you will save time by not trying to make me,” said Dun- 
bar. 

The man had assumed rather a discouraged and uncer- 
tain look upon this, but perked up as well as he could, and 
asked Dunbar several other questions which that young 
man absolutely refused to answer; and soon he was sent 
back to his cell. 

And so the days wore on, each so like its immediate 
predecessor and successor as to be almost indistinguishable. 
Each little different feature in the routine of the day, 
such as a variety of food served him, or the exchange of 
his library book, or some unimportant incident in his 
daily walk assumed a momentousness entirely out of pro- 
portion to its intrinsic weight. He tried to keep up his 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


IOI 


spirits by reading, or by employing his thoughts in specu- 
lating upon what his family, his friends, and especially, 
his enemies were doing. Then came a time, when, although 
he felt the injustice of the thought, he could not refrain 
from feeling indignant and rebellious that his family could 
leave him alone and forsaken in such straits as he was in. 
There is a quality in the human mind which leads it to 
hug its secret sorrows, and to feed upon its miseries : There 
is no place in the world like a prison, to promote such a 
mental condition. Poor Dunbar, without admitting it, 
was getting discouraged. He was finding, as many a 
poor fellow had found, not only the strength, but the ty- 
ranny of the law. The right to personal liberty was be- 
coming to him, as it is to all men, the most precious thing 
in life; the deprivation of it, especially without just cause, 
the greatest possible wrong society could inflict upon one 
of its own members. To take a man forcibly away from 
his family and friends, from his usual life and avoca- 
tions, his business and his pleasures, and to im- 
mure him in a dungeon ; was a horrible exercise of 
power. It was a relic of barbarism ; when men had no sense 
of right except such as was theiPs by reason of might. 
The whole question of man’s assumption of the right to 
punish his fellowman passed by him in review, for the first 
time in his life ; and he admitted to hijnself with contrition 
that he had given the whole matter just about as much 
attention, from the active concerns in the outside world, 
as most men had; which was none at all. For the first 
time in his life, by reason of his own present and bitter 
experience, he pictured to himself the tortures, the miseries 
of prison life for men known to be guilty, let alone the 
innocent ones. The very human way we have, surrounded 
by our worldly comforts and possessions, of taking it for 
granted that the suspected man is almost necessarily the 
guilty man, and the unfortunate one nearly as bad; came 


102 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


home to him now as it had never done before. In future 
he should be much more inclined to give a man accused 
of crime the benefit of the doubt; and even the guilty one 
a larger share of his charity than he would ever have be- 
stowed upon him before. And so the time wore on. 

And now we will leave poor Dunbar to his fate for a 
while within the gloomy walls of Holloway Castle, and 
see what was going on among the various people with whom 
he was connected outside of his prison walls. Our first 
visit will be to Dobson’s office in Theobald’s Road. Two 
days after Dunbar’s arrest, that gentleman was seated in 
his private room at the close of his day’s work, thinking 
over his prospects: “The game is up,” he said to him- 
self, wearily ; “I have exhausted every possible remedy, and 
only two ways are open to me; one, to tell Dunbar how I 
have robbed him, and throw myself upon his mercy; the 
other, to run away. Now, which shall I do? If I accept 
the first alternative, I may possibly succeed in making it 
appear to his advantage to accept some sort of a compro- 
mise by means of which I shall help him to unravel all 
the intricacies of his affairs, which he will never be able 
to do for himself, as the price of immunity from prose- 
cution. In that way, I may be able to save something out 
of the wreck of my own fortunes for my wife and children. 
On the other hand, I may be putting the halter around 
my own neck which is to hang me. I have still a large sum 
of money and many of his securities left, which I could 
hand him over as the price of my personal liberty, or retain 
in case of his refusal to come to terms.” 

“On the other hand, if I run away, I shall have all those 
assets to begin business with in a foreign land. Now, 
which shall it be?” From Dunbar’s natural goodness of 
heart, I think I might count upon his forgiveness. Per- 
haps it would be best for me to try this move first, and if 
it fails arrange matters in such a manner that I can still 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


103 


fall back upon my other alternative. This is what I will 
do.” 

Carrying out this plan, as he went home that evening, 
he sent Dunbar the following telegram: “Important that 
I should see you at once. Tomorrow at ten, if possible.” 

Dobson. 

The next morning he was at his office an hour before his 
usual time, to have everything in order for instant flight 
in case Dunbar refused to take a lenient view of matters. 
In parting from his family, he had told them that he 
might possibly be compelled to take a trip to the continent 
upon a matter of business. He had a portmanteau packed 
in case of need, which he took with him. Arrived at his 
office, he had taken a bundle of Dunbar’s securities from 
his safe and placed them in his portmanteau to be in 
readiness for a speedy retreat. He had already cashed 
checks for large amounts, then converted the Bank of 
England notes into continental and American moneys, 
still leaving a rather large sum in bank which he could 
dispose of by check after he had fully decided upon the 
course he was to pursue. Having accomplished all this, 
he spent the rest of the time while waiting for Dunbar’s 
visit in carefully destroying old papers and books of ac- 
count which might furnish interesting reading to his pur- 
suers after he had taken flight. Like most men in diffi- 
culties and meditating an escape from them, his greatest 
fear lay in the direction of some sudden and unexpected 
action upon the part of the man he had wronged. Assum- 
ing, for instance, that Dunbar had had some inkling of 
his defalcation for some time back, the receipt of his 
urgent telegram might be the signal for an immediate 
application for a warrant for his arrest. He must be pre- 
pared for this. He went over in his mind just what would 
happen after Dunbar had received his telegram. “He had 


104 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


it about seven o’clock last evening,” he said to himself. 
"Supposing he intended to take any action against me, 
it would be too late to consult any solicitor at that time. 
In the morning, he might go to a criminal solicitor and 
send him to a magistrate for a warrant; but the court 
would not be open until ten o’clock, the hour set for his 
meeting with me here. So that if he comes , as I hope he 
may, I shall be pretty safe in assuming that he has not 
as yet taken any steps; whereas, if he does not come, I 
shall begin to think he has. If he comes, I can pretty 
well judge by his manner whether or not he is going to be 
hostile. If feeling sure he is, I can leave immediately; 
for it will be a matter of several hours taking the necessary 
steps to secure a warrant; and, in the meantime, I shall 
be miles away from London, headed for the continent.” 

So, he reasoned it out in his mind; and, as the time 
slipped away, his anxiety increased momentarily. "I wish 
he would come. Why don't he come?” he said to himself, 
repeatedly, as at last the clock pointed to the hour of ten. 
Every time the door of the outer office was heard to open 
or close, his heart thumped against its walls, as he ex- 
claimed : "There he is !” 

But ten o’clock came and went, and no Dunbar appeared. 
Half -past ten came, and still he failed to appear. By this 
time, when he heard anyone open the outside door, he 
quailed with fear lest Dunbar should enter with an officer of 
the court and give him in charge. With the greatest possible 
difficulty, he stood the strain until eleven o’clock was strik- 
ing from the tower of a neighboring church; and then, 
pale and trembling, he took his cheque-book, drew a cheque 
for the balance remaining at his Bank, to the order of a 
man he could trust, who, by a previous arrangement, would 
know what to do with it. He folded it, placed it in an 
envelope, addressed it with a trembling hand, put a post- 
age stamp upon it; making all ready to drop it in a pillar 


PATRICK DURBAR 


105 


box upon his way to the train. Then, going into the front 
office he said to his managing clerk : “Simpson, say to Mr. 
Dunbar when he comes, that I waited for him until after 
eleven o’clock, and couldn’t really wait any longer ; as I am 
due, as I told you yesterday I might be, to take the eleven- 
forty-five at Euston Station for the North. Ask him to 
kindly make another appointment, say, in a week’s time; 
after my return. Central Hotel, Glasgow, will find me 
in the meantime ; if he cares to write.” 

Then, taking his portmanteau, he left the office, de- 
scended the stairs into the street; called a cab, calmly 
handed his valise to the cabby to be placed on top, directed 
him in as steady a voice as he could command to 'drive 
to Euston Station. Arrived there, he paid and dismissed 
the man, posted his letter, took his portmanteau, entered 
the station; then he went to the lavatory, where, taking a 
traveling cap from his bag, he put it on, tied a muffler 
about his neck, left his hat carelessly upon the dressing 
table as if he had forgotten it in his haste to catch his 
train. Then he emerged from the station, called another 
cab; and in a twinkling was being driven at a rapid 
pace to the St. Paul’s Station of the London, Chatham 
and Dover line. 


CHAPTEK VIII. 

Two days after Dunbar’s unfortunate experience, a tele- 
gram was delivered at his house for him, which was opened 
by his mother, and which read : 

“Come.” C. Marley. 

“Mrs. Marley,” with an address in an out-of-the-way part 
of the town, was what the mysterious woman had in- 
scribed in his note-book on the evening of their meeting. 
Catherine Marley, or Kate Marley, as we shall call her, 
had overheard another conversation which had indicated to 
her mind that the crisis she had predicted had arrived ; and 
that if anything was to be done to protect Dunbar’s in- 
terests it must be done at once. After sending the tele- 
gram, she had repaired to the appointed rendezvous and 
had waited as patiently as only a woman can wait for the 
man she wished to save from impending evil. But she 
had waited in vain. At first she feared that Dunhar, for 
some unforseen reason, might not have received her mes- 
sage, and she determined to try sending another. Upon 
reflection, however, it occurred to her that the same ob- 
stacle which had stood in the way of the receipt of her first 
wire would be equally operative in regard to the second; 
and she refrained. At last, however, she became so anxious, 
that she went to Portland Place in the vague hope of see- 
ing or hearing something in regard to our hero. After 
walking up and down the street until she feared to attract 
attention, and hearing or seeing nothing, she finally retired, 
more anxious than before. From what she had heard in 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


107 


regard to Dunbar’s affairs, she felt almost certain that 
such pressure had at last been brought to bear upon Dob- 
son by Gow and his fellow conspirators, that something in 
the nature of a catastrophe was sure to come about. Just 
what it would be, she of course could not say. Two or 
three more days passed without her hearing anything more 
of Dunbar, and her anxiety was proportionately increased 
as the time rolled on. What had become of him? 

So worried had she become by this time, that her foot- 
steps seemed to gravitate towards Portland Place by an 
attraction she could not resist, and this time she was fortu- 
nate enough to see two ladies, evidently Dunbar’s mother 
and sister, leave the house in their carriage, just as she 
was passing. If ever trouble and grief were written in 
intelligible characters upon human faces, it was written 
there. On the evening of the sixth day since she had last 
seen Dunbar, she was surprised by a knock at her door, 
upon opening it was informed that a man wished to see 
her in the hall of her lodging house. The air of mystery 
and formalism with which this man addressed her, when, 
in response to his summons she had made her appearance, 
indicated to a somewhat practiced eye like hePs that he 
belonged to the Police Department. 

“Are you Mrs. C. Marley, madame?” he asked, respect- 
fully enough. 

“Yes, I am,” she answered, with some apparent hesita- 
tion, however, as if, possibly, under different circumstances 
she might have given a different answer. The man gave 
her a look as if to say, “one name is as good as another for 
my present purpose,” and then, aloud, “are you the Mrs. 
Marley referred to in this note-book?” handing her Dun- 
bar’s tablets, upon which she immediately recognized the 
entry she had made. Her change of color and agitation 
answered this question affirmatively for her before she 
could trust herself to speak. She was beset by two fears 


io8 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


now; the one she had already felt for Dunbar’s personal 
safety, and a new fear that inadvertently she should fall 
into some trap set by the police, the result of which would 
be to injure the very man she would so gladly save. So she 
hesitated before answering the question. The officer en- 
couraged her by saying in a tone and manner which 
somehow disarmed her fears: 

“You need not be afraid. If you are a real friend of the 
gentleman to whom you gave that address, the very best 
proof you can give of it is to throw any light you can upon 
his identity; for he is in serious trouble.” 

Even with this assurance, though given with evident 
kindness, Kate Marley was not fully reassured. Perhaps 
the circumstances of her life were hardly favorable to a 
belief in men. At last she asked: 

“What is the nature of his trouble?” 

“I am here to receive rather than to give information,” 
responded the man, a little gruffly ; but, since you ask, per- 
haps there’s no great harm in telling you he’s been ar- 
rested on a charge of burglary. We felt pretty sure we had 
an old offender named ‘Gentleman Colfax,’ until yester- 
day ; when Colfax was caught cornin’ out of an ’ouse loaded 
down with swag enough to fill an omnibus. Now, as it 
isn’t likely there are two Colfaxes, I’m afraid we shall have 
to let one of ’em go; but we’d like to find out something 
about the first one while he’s in our ’ands, as he was caught 
enterin’ an ’ouse in disguise; and he assaulted the officer 
who arrested him. I happen to know ; as I was the officer. 
Now if you can identify the man, it will save us a lot of 
trouble, as he certainly seems to be a gentleman; and if 
there’s nothin’ against ’im, we’d like to let ’im go.” 

“Was the house you say he was entering in Portland 
Place, near the Park end of the street?” 

“Yes, it was.” 

“Well, then, it was his own house he was entering, and 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


109 


you have arrested one of the finest as well as one of the 
richest gentlemen in London. You had better let him go 
a a soon as you can ; for he is not a man to be trifled with, 
I can assure you.” 

The man’s face took on a somewhat troubled look, but 
he answered: “It can’t be the owner of the ’ouse, mum; 
for I rang the bell and asked the butler, and he said he 
had never laid eyes upon ’im before.” 

“Didn’t you tell me the gentleman you arrested was in 
disguise ?” 

“By George, I never thought of that” exclaimed the 
man, as if a new light had suddenly broken in upon him. 
“We never knew he was disguised, though, until the next 
day, when he appeared in court. He was as like ‘Gentleman 
Colfax’ as any two peas, when I took ’im in ; I’ll give you 
my word of that.” 

“Did the gentleman give you his name?” 

“No, mum. He said he was the owner of the ’ouse, and 
that as we’d given ’im the name of Colfax, ’e wouldn’t 
contradict us. Do you know ’is real name, mum?” 

“Of course, I do ; but if he would not give it to you, he 
undoubtedly had good reasons for not doing so; reasons 
which I shall respect.” 

“’E didn’t want to get ’is real name in the papers, I 
expect; and I don’t know as I blame ’im, bein’ the gentle- 
man you say he is.” 

“Very likely; and there may have been other reasons 
as well. When did the arrest take place ?” 

“A week ago to-morrow, mum.” 

“At what time?” 

“About ten o’clock in the evening.” 

Kate thought a moment, and then it flashed upon her 
that that was the very evening she had met Dunbar. He 
had gone to the eating-house in Leicester Square to get 
wind of the conspiracy she had warned him of, had dis- 


no 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


guised himself by a curious coincidence into a likeness of 
a well-known burglar; and, well, had suffered the conse- 
quences. He had been too proud to explain the situation, 
and had been locked up as a reuslt. The whole matter stood 
revealed now, as clear as the noonday sun. “And, now, 
what do you wish me to do ?” she asked. 

“Why, ’e’ll be in the Marlborough Street Police Court 
to-morrow morning, mum, and if you’ll be there to identify 
’im, it would ’elp us and * im . Shall I serve you with a 
summons, or will you come of your own accord ?” 

“I would go a thousand miles on my hands and knees to 
serve that man. So we’ll dispense with the summons. I’ll 
be there as sure as the clock strikes ten.” 

As this was all that could be done that evening, the 
officer now took his leave. It being still early, he took a 
cab and requested to be driven to Dunbar’s house in Port- 
land Place. Arriving there, he rang the bell, and soon 
stood in the presence of the butler who had denied his 
master on the occasion of their first meeting. 

“Take this card to your mistress,” he said, producing a 
paste-board upon which was engraved; ‘Inspector Evans, 
Scotland Yard.’ “Tell the lady it is of the greatest im- 
portance that I see her at once.” 

The servant moved at a much faster pace than his sense 
of dignity usually permitted to execute this order, for, 
sooth to say, a vague feeling that trouble was in the air 
impelled him. In a few moments he returned, with a re- 
quest that the officer be shown into the reception room, 
where she would see him. Evans had hardly taken his 
seat, when Mrs. Dunbar, accompanied by her two daughters, 
entered the room : 

“I’m afraid, madame,” Evans began, rather awkardly, 
“that a great mistake has been made. Is there anything, 
beg pardon, I mean anybody missing about the house?” 

“My son, sir, Mr. Patrick Dunbar, has been missing for 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


III 


nearly a week, as I have already reported to your super- 
ior, I suppose, at Scotland Yard. You come with a mes- 
sage from him, I suppose. What is it? Let us know the 
worst at once. Is he dead?” 

“Good God, madame, you don’t mean to say ? Ah, I see 
it all now. Why, madame, I really beg ten thousand par- 
dons; but I am the man who arrested him as he was en- 
tering this very ’ouse a week ago, come to-morrow night. 
I really ’ope, madame, you will overlook an accident as 
might ’appen easily to a man in our line of business. I 
really ’ope you will, and the young ladies, too.” Here the 
poor fellow took his pocket handkerchief, and mopped his 
forehead, as some persons do under circumstances of great 
embarrassment. Then followed a pause. 

“I am waiting for your explanation of this affair/’ finally 
said Mrs. Dunbar, with some asperity, which served to 
much increase the present difficulties. “Why, mum, I 
mean, madame, for the life of me, I never saw such a like- 
ness between two, ahem, gentlemen, as there was between 
your son and ‘Gentleman Colfax.’ I really never did. 
That’s before ’e took off his disguise, mum. Of course, 
after I saw him with a clean face, I saw a mistake ’ad 
been made. Then, of course, the other lady, ‘is friend; I 
beg parding, mum, perhaps I shouldn’t speak of her be- 
fore the young ladies; but, Mrs. Marley, she set me right.” 

“Will you kindly refrain from mixing my son’s name up 
with questionable women or disguises ; for he, to my certain 
knowledge, has nothing whatever to do with either.” 

“Mamma, you know the telegram you opened was signed 
‘Marley,’” whispered Alice to her mother. 

“I know it was, dear,” responded Mrs. Dunbar, “but this 
vulgar wretch need not know that. And now, sir, as there 
appears to have been some mistake, will you be good 
enough to immediately produce my §on?” The good old 


1 12 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


lady seemed to think the officer had him concealed some- 
where about his person. 

“Most certainly, mum, ’e will be set at liberty imme- 
diately. ’E will be in court at ten o’clock to-morrow, and 
will be discharged, of course, as soon as ever the magis- 
trate arrives.” 

“What, are you going to keep a man, whom you yourself 
admit to be innocent, over night in some gloomy dungeon, 
in chains, for all I know, and with rats and other horrid 
things running about ? I demand his release at once ; this 
very moment.” 

“That would be impossible, madame, I fear; but if you 
would kindly be at the Marlborough Street Police court 
to-morrow at ten, I feel sure you will be able to bring him 
home with you.” j 

At this, Inspector Evans took his departure, as grace- 
fully as possible ; which was not saying very much. 

In the meantime, poor Dunbar was faring about as well 
as might have been expected, under the circumstances, at 
Holloway. He had received rather a perfunctory visit from 
the governor, a stout military-looking gentleman, who, 
from long association with suspicious characters, had evi- 
dently come to have absolutely no faith in any one who 
came under his fatal battlements. He scowled porten- 
tously at Dunbar, with an expression upon his face which 
saved him the trouble of saying anything at all. It said 
as plainly as words could say it, “It’s not of the slightest 
use trying to explain your case to me, you know, because 
I’ve heard thousands of such explanations before; and I 
don’t believe a word of them. The fact of your being here 
is quite good enough evidence for me that you deserve to 
be here.” 

After this, the prison chaplain called, a very glum-look- 
ing man, who told Dunbar he “hoped it would be a warn- 
ing to him,” and walked on to the next unfortunate, who 


PATRICK DXJKBAR 


1 1 3 

probably got exactly the same treatment ; for he looked like 
a man who never changed a formula he had once found 
by experience to answer his purpose. Then Dunbar had 
been called out of the line once or twice by Evans and 
questioned, but with no result whatever. Our hero simply 
refused to talk with him. Then Sunday came, and a 
gloomy day it proved to him. There was no walk in the 
yard on Sunday. There was a service in the chapel, a very 
mournful sermon from the chaplain, calculated to depress 
anyone’s spirits, but more particularly those of the poor 
devils to whom it was addressed, who had to hear it 
whether they liked it or not. It was about as dreary an 
experience as could possibly be imagined, and Dunbar’s 
heart sank at the possibility of ever having another to 
face in the place. The old feeling that he had been 
abandoned by his family and friends was now more strongly 
upon him than ever. He had a desperate feeling which 
found expression in such words as “Well, if they have 
abandoned me, I fancy I can stand it as long as they can. 
I shall never forgive them, though,” and the like. While 
thinking such things, he knew of course that all he had 
to do was to call for pen and ink and paper to put an end 
to his troubles; but this would involve publicity, and then 
he had begun to rather enjoy his sulky, desperate mood; 
and not to care to change it. 

One result of all this was that the poor young fellow 
was rapidly, though perhaps unconsciously, assuming an- 
other disguise in the place of the one he had discarded. 
He had no facilities whatever for shaving, or for changing 
his linen. Neither had he any night dress. So, with these 
deprivations he was rapidly lapsing into a savage condi- 
tion and appearance, quite at variance with the usual trim 
neatness which characterized the man. The week came 
round at last, however, and upon the morning of the day 
upon which he was expected to appear in court, he was 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


1 14 

placed in the prison van, and driven off to Marlborough 
Street. As before, he was placed in a cell in the lower 
regions to wait his turn to be haled into court. It seemed 
to him, however, although he could hardly define the 
change, that he was treated with greater consideration than 
when he had been in the place before. 

At last his cell door was unlocked, and he was requested 
to ascend the spiral staircase into the court-room. The 
place was as crowded and as ill-smelling as before, but a 
suppressed excitement was evident to our hero as he calmly 
surveyed the apartment to see whether he could recognize 
anyone in the room. 

“Is Mrs. Catherine Marley present?” asked the clerk, 
in a rather loud voice. In answer to this summons, a move- 
ment in the press was observable, and to his surprise, his 
mysterious friend pushed her way, as well as the density of 
the crowd would admit, until she had responded to her 
name: 

“Ah, Mrs. Marley, will you kindly step into the witness 
box. You solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, 
and nothing but the truth; so help you God. Kiss the 
Book, please. Now, Mrs. Marley, will you kindly look at 
the prisoner in the dock and tell us whether you have 
ever seen him before?” 

Kate turned her gaze in the direction indicated, and saw 
a disheveled likeness of the man she had once known as 
Patrick Dunbar. He had a week’s growth of beard. His 
clothing was creased and wrinkled from having been slept 
in, and sadly needed brushing. His linen was in the condi- 
tion a week’s sequestration from a laundry would pre-sup- 
pose. But the clear eye, the kindly honest expression upon 
his face, the fearless, straight forward look in his eyes 
were present for all men to see, and for such of them as 
knew an honest man when they saw one, to recognize in 
this much-abused young man. Kate looked at him approv- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


115 

ingly, as if in her sad experience of life it was good for her 
eyes to fall upon such a specimen of manhood as stood 
before her. 

“Yes, I perfectly recognize the gentleman,” she said, 
with a dignity and self-possession which surprised Dun- 
bar, although he had already seen something of this sin- 
gular woman’s characteristics. 

“You say you recognize the prisoner? What is his 
name, and when did you see him last ?” 

“I said I recognized the gentleman; for gentleman he is, 
whether prisoner or not. As to giving his name , as I under- 
stand he has declined, probably for perfectly proper rea- 
sons to give it, I shall also decline, until I have his per- 
mission to do so.” 

“You must recollect, Mrs. Marley, that you are in Her 
Majesty’s Court, and upon your oath. I need not remind 
you that you must be guarded in what you do and say ; and 
incidentally, please allude to the prisoner as ‘the prisoner ! 
We recognize no gentlemen while they are standing in the 
dock of this court accused of crime.” 

“And I should not only recognize him as a gentleman, 
but should allude to him as such, were he already tried and 
convicted, and standing before me in prison garb,” said 
Kate, looking the magistrate defiantly in the face. 

“Tut, tut, Mrs. Marie)', you allow your ardor to get 
the better of you. You must not address the court in that 
manner, or I shall be compelled to commit you for con- 
tempt.” 

If his worship had committed the woman for only half 
the contempt she evidently took no pains to conceal, as he 
said this, to say nothing of what she probably felt, it 
might have been a long time before she would have seen 
the blessed light of day again, except through prison bars. 

“You have asked me to identify this gentleman , and I 
absolutely identify him. I also absolutely refuse to men- 


PATRICK DURBAR 


Il6 

tion his name, or an}' other particulars concerning him, 
until I have his full permission to do so.” 

“Oh ho, you decline to mention his name, do you? We’ll 
see about this. You decline — •” 

“No, not decline. I refuse ” 

By this time, not only the prisoner, but everyone in the 
room were greatly interested and amused, Dunbar par- 
ticularly ; and being perfectly satisfied now that his troubles 
were about at an end, he determined to allow matters to 
take their course; without, certainly, volunteering any aid. 
So he put on an imperturbable expression, and said noth- 
ing. The magistrate and his clerk in the meantime were 
engaged in a conversation in too low a voice to be heard. 
After this had gone on for several minutes, the magis- 
trate turned to the witness and said, “You may stand 
down, for the present, Mrs. Marley; but please do not leave 
the court-room. We may need you again.” 

Then Inspector Evans was called, and testified that hav- 
ing seen the prisoner on several occasions since the night 
of his arrest, without his disguise, and owing to the fact 
of the man he had taken him for having been arrested, he 
now retracted his former testimony as to the identification 
of the prisoner. In fact, he had been deceived by the amaz- 
ing likeness to a well-known criminal ; as anyone else might 
easily have been, under the circumstances. He was sorry 
for it, but it couldn’t be helped. Such accidents would 
occasionally happen, even at Scotland Yard. Since the 
arrest of ‘Gentleman Colfax,’ and his positive identifica- 
tion, he had heard of the disappearance of a gentleman by 
the name of Patrick Dunbar from the very house in Port- 
land Place which the prisoner at present standing in the 
dock was arrested while entering. From a memorandum 
in a note-book found upon the person of the prisoner when 
he was searched at the police station, he had obtained the 
name and address of Mrs. Marley, who had just left the 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


1 7 


witness stand. From what she said during a visit he had 
made upon her at the address given in the note-book, he 
personally was fully satisfied that the prisoner in the dock 
was none other than Patrick Dunbar; but, in the absence 
of any actual acquaintance with the prisoner under that 
name, of course, he could not swear to it; and that as the 
last witness, although recognizing the prisoner, had re- 
fused to give his name, the full identification of the pris- 
oner as Patrick Dunbar lacked a final intervening link, 
which could only be supplied by a person or persons who 
not only knew him to be that gentleman, but who would 
say that they did. 

This was the inspector’s testimony in effect, and just as 
he finished speaking, a commotion was caused by the en- 
trance into the court-room of two stately and beautifully 
appointed ladies, one an elderly one, the other younger; 
who were evidently desirous of attracting the attention of 
the magistrate. As soon as the elderly lady got speech of 
that officer, she said, with considerable excitement: “1 can 
supply the missing link, sir. I am the prisoner’s mother, 
and I fully identify him as Patrick Dunbar, my son; and 
I demand his instant release, and an ample apology for 
the humiliation and anxiety you have caused his family 
and my son by his outrageous and illegal arrest.” 

Matters were evidently approaching a crisis, and the cat 
was now pretty well out of the bag. Scotland Yard and 
the Marlborough Street Police Court were, for once in their 
lives, at least, caught napping. In their intense zeal to do 
their duty, as it sometimes happens, they had succeeded in 
doing a good deal more than their duty. They were in an 
exceedingly awkward position. They had not only ar- 
rested a perfectly innocent man, but they had arrested a 
rich and influential man, as well as an innocent one; had 
subjected him to a week’s false imprisonment, had reviled 
him and despitefully used him, and were now bearded in 


n8 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


their dens, so to speak, first, by a rebellious witness, who 
simply laughed at the court and openly defied it, and now 
by an undoubted gentlewoman, humiliated and enraged, as 
a mother would be likely to be in defending her son from 
an outrageous charge. 

Here was trouble ahead for officialdom engaged in this 
unfortunate affair, or, to say the very least of it, a good deal 
of newspaper talk and ridicule; all of which is just the 
kind of trouble the hardest to bear on the part of those in 
authority. 

Mrs. Dunbar was evidently in no mood to be trifled with 
or refused. She had by this time recovered from the em- 
barrassment a refined woman would naturally feel in sud- 
denly finding herself in the midst of such squalid and un- 
accustomed surroundings. Her breath seemed to come 
in spasmodic efforts. There was all the fire in her eye of a 
wounded tigress defending her young. She kept on ad- 
vancing towards the bench, utterly oblivious now to all the 
conventions made and established in the premises. She had 
apparently no more fear of the judge or of the law in which 
he was engaged in administering than a wounded tigress 
would have had; and infinitely more contempt. 

“Are you going to release my son, sir, or will you com- 
pel me to go to Parliament, or to the First Lord of the 
Treasury, the Prime Minister of England, the Queen her- 
self, with the story of the infamous outrage you have in- 
flicted upon an innocent gentleman, and a highly re- 
spectable and honorable family?” 

“Restrain yourself, madame, restrain yourself. You must 
be aware that the language you are using to the court is, 
um, ahem, entirely out of order, even for a lady of your 
evident, um, respectability.” 

If there is anything which to the English mind stands 
for impregnable respectability, it is a carriage with an em- 
blem of some kind on its door panel, with a coachman 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


I IQ 


and a footman in livery, patiently waiting the pleasure of 
its master or mistress. Such an equipage was now stand- 
ing in the street in front of the court. The ladies them- 
selves who, by their bearing, dress and manners might have 
been duchesses, were not, at any rate, persons to be treated 
upon lines which would apply to the class of people ordin- 
arily found in a court-room ; by any manner of means. Add 
to this the very important fact that this time the court 
was obviously, confessedly in the wrong; and it can be 
readily understood that Mrs. and Miss Dunbar were pretty 
formidable people to deal with, even to a judge. 

“I demand again, and for the last time, sir, whether you 
are going, to keep my son for another moment in the de- 
grading position he now occupies ?” cried the now infuriated 
old gentlewoman. 

“Madame, I again request you to calm yourself, and to 
take your place in the witness box. After you have been 
sworn, and have given your evidence in regular form, I 
have not the slightest doubt we shall be able to fully and 
honorably discharge the, um, ahem, prisoner. Now", do 
calm yourself, my dear madame, and listen to reason.” 

All this seemed to only add to the infuriation of the old 
lady. “Do you mean to put me, sir, me into a dirty wit- 
ness box like the one you have already put one member of 
our family in, and ask me to kiss a Bible, which may for 
all I know have been kissed by a leper, only a half an hour 
ago ? Do you dare, sir, to offer me and my daughter such 
an indignity ? For the last time, instantly release my son, 
or detain him another moment at your peril ! I absolutely 
refuse to either enter your witness box, or to kiss your Book. 
But let me tell you one thing; Mr. Magistrate: If I leave 
this court-room without Mr. Patrick Dunbar sitting by my 
side in his carriage, you must take him back to prison to 
remain until I return with some gentlemen who will at 
one and the same time release my son and remove you from 


120 


PATRICK DURBAR 


the office you so stupidly and disgracefully fill. Now, take 
your choice ; for I have no time to trifle.” 

“Madame, I am quite convinced of the entire innocence 
of the prisoner, your son ; and I am going to discharge him, 
honorably discharge him; but don’t for a moment suppose 
that I do so under the impulse of your threat. Such lan- 
guage as you have used in this court, is, I am bound to 
say, um, ahem, unprecedented, unprecedented; and I could 
easily have you committed for it. I — ” 

Mrs. Dunbur’s answer to this last remark was to bestow 
upon the magistrate a withering glance, in which scorn, 
contempt and suppressed rage were mingled. She then 
turned her back upon him, and began the task of forcing 
her way through the crowd in the direction of the door, 
which had become by no means an easy matter by this time ; 
so great was the interest in the scene which had taken 
plane. 

“Madame,” called the migistrate, after her, “restrain 
your — ” 

Not a word came from the retreating pythoness. 

“Prisoner discharged,” he ended his sentence; and then 
a burst of applause Went up from the throng which it would 
have been as impossible to suppress as the rising of the 
tide. 

Dunbar stepped proudly from the dock, a free man; and 
the crowd parted respectfully to allow him to join his 
mother and sister. 

“Wait a moment, mother,” he said, as he came to her 
side. “There is a lady who has helped me in my trouble 
here whom I wish to thank for her loyalty.” 

“Who is it?” demanded his mother, haughtily. “Not 
that horrid woman ?” 

“The lady I wish to thank is Mrs. Marley, to whom I 
shall always be grateful for her noble and disinterested 
treatment of me. Ah, here she is. Mrs. Marley, this is my 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


121 


mother, Mrs. Dunbar, and this is my sister, Alice. We all 
of us thank you for your kindness to me to-day and shall 
never forget it.” He took her cordially by the hand, and 
gave her a smile which an angel might have envied to give 
or to receive, and bowed as if she had been a queen. His 
mother and sister in no wise recognized her existence, but 
walked out of the room with the stately stride with which 
they had entered it. Then, Dunbar, having said a few po- 
lite and kind words to the mysterious woman, took his leave, 
joined his mother in the carriage, and they all drove away 
together. 


CHAPTER IX. 


We will now follow the fortunes of our old friend Dob- 
son. We left that gentleman as he drove up in a cab to 
the St. Paul’s station of the London, Chatham and Dover 
Railway. Having no luggage but a small portmanteau 
which he could easily carry in his hand, he dismissed the 
cab, entered the waiting room, took an apparently indiffer- 
ent look about the place to see whether there was anyone 
he knew, but really to see whether he was watched. Then 
he purchased a third-class ticket to Margate. Then he 
mounted the steps leading to the platform, and impatiently 
waited for his train. He had some time to wait, and it 
was as much as he could do to restrain his impatience to 
be off. Just at this season of the year there were thou- 
sands of excursionists to the sea-side places; and he had 
taken a third-class ticket to as much as possible identify 
himself with the crowd, and be lost in it. With his cap 
drawn over his eyes, and his muffler concealing the lower 
part of his face, he was fairly well disguised; but the 
wicked flee where no man pursueth, and he was one of the 
wicked; and he had no intention of having anyone pur- 
sue him to any advantage. The train came along at last, 
and Dobson entered a third-class smoker, lighted a pipe, 
and apparently buried himself in his newspaper, but in 
reality kept a very sharp lookout for suspicious looking 
strangers who might take an interest in him. 

Nothing worthy of note happened on the journey. To 
be sure, he was a good deal startled, when, after feeling 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


123 


that one of the men in the compartment had been watch- 
ing him with some interest, to feel a hand laid upon his 
shoulder as they were passing through a tunnel. But, the 
man, whoever he was, only wanted a light for his pipe; 
and probably never knew how much he had frightened the 
party of whom he had asked it. Arrived at Margate, Dob- 
son sauntered down the principal street of the town, as 
thousands of tourists were doing, and seeing at last a hair- 
dressing shop, entered it ostensibly for what he termed 
a wash and brush-up; but really to add to his disguise. 
Taking a seat in the barber’s chair, he said, carelessly, 
“I’ve been intending for a long time to shave my beard. 
Just take it off, will you? As I’m on an ’oliday, I’ll just 
give the missus a surprise when I go ’ome by ’avin a clean 
face.” 

“Yes, sir, ’ow will you ’ave it, sir. Leave the moustache 
on, or will it be mutton chop whiskers, which is much 
worn now, sir, by our toffs? You’d look superb, sir, in 
mutton chops. You really would.” 

“No, every pork butcher in London wears mutton chops. 
My old woman once said she’d like to see me in a mous- 
tache; so moustache let it be.” 

“Very well, sir, I’m sure you’ll look ten years younger 
in a moustache; you really will.” 

So, in a very short time, Dobson issued from the 
barber’s shop another Adonis, and much pleased with his 
changed appearance he noted in the glass. Then he stopped 
in at a gentleman’s outfitting shop to buy an umbrella; 
and, having found one to his taste, paid for it; but just as 
he was leaving the place, his eye fell upon a large Inverness 
cape, which would cover his whole figure. This he bought 
also, and several other things he allowed himself somewhat 
reluctantly to be talked into buying by the most obsequious 
and talkative of shopmen. When he came out of this shop, 
arrayed in his new purchases, his own mother would not 


124 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


have known him. Having for some time past meditated 
a possible flight, Dobson had laid his plans: He had 
heard, for instance, that frequently during each week of 
the holiday season an excursion steamer sailed from Mar- 
gate and Ramsgate for Boulogne. After having completed 
his purchases, he strolled carelessly about the town, for all 
the world like a commercial traveler on “ ’is ’oliday.” 

Late in the afternoon, he thought it time to make his 
arrangements for the night; so he entered a small and 
unimportant hotel near the water, and took a room. Sit- 
ting in the coffee room after his dinner, he heard a few 
rather ordinary-looking pleasure seekers like himself dis- 
cussing a run over to Boulogne and return on the following 
day. As this was the information he had been seeking, 
without caring to openly ask for it, he retired fairly early 
in the evening to his room, determined to make the trip to 
the shores of sunny France in the morning. 

At ten o’clock the next day he was on the steamer “Crom- 
well,” with all his fortunes, and with rather an assorted 
company of his fellow-countrymen and women; of whom, 
possibly, he was the only one who would fail to use his 
return ticket. 

Arrived at Boulogne, he began to breathe a little more 
freely ; but he still considered himself as far from safe from 
pursuit. He found a modest lodgment in the Rue Pot 
d’etain; and began to look about him. Pretty confident 
now of his disguise, and in the fact of his having secured 
a fair start of his possible pursuers, he took no particular 
pains to conceal himself, but walked about the town looking 
in at shop windows, and appearing to be interested in 
what was going on about him, as hundreds of his fellow 
passengers on the “Cromwell” were doing. 

Dobson’s objective resting place was America. In his 
investigations preceding his flight, he had ascertained that 
a steamer of the Amsterdam Line called at Boulogne every 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


I2 5 


week. This line at that time was not as well known as it 
has come to be of late, and he felt more sure of meeting no 
one he knew, or better still, who knew him, on this route 
than any other. Still, to avoid all possible accidents, he 
resolved to go in the steerage. No one would be looking for 
him in the steerage of a steamer of an unknown line, sail- 
ing from a port of call like Boulogne, instead of from 
Rotterdam, or Amsterdam; the European termini of the 
line. 

So he made his arrangements for sailing coolly and de- 
liberately, as he had made every move so far, and, in a 
few days found himself a steerage passenger under about 
as uncomfortable conditions as could easily be imagined. 
His sleeping accommodation was a rough wooden bunk, of 
which he at first congratulated himself upon the chance 
of having secured the lower berth; but subsequent revela- 
tions served to change his views upon this matter. A 
large number of Russian and Polish Jews were his im- 
mediate fellow passengers. Among them, the one who 
occupied the berth directly over him became violently 
seasick as soon as the steamer got to sea, and remained 
so for pretty much the whole voyage. This gentleman ap- 
peared to consider it a compliment, rather than the re- 
verse, to bestow any and everything in the way of once- 
used eatables he didn’t want himself upon his fellow pas- 
senger in the lower berth. In the early part of the voyage 
Dobson was so sick himself as to be in no condition to 
protest against this extravagance upon the part of his 
neighbor; but, after a time, as he recovered, he found it 
an embarrassment of riches. 

In those days, the steerage in even the best appointed 
ships was far from a comfortable place to travel in; but, 
on an old, and very dirty ship, with absolutely no appli- 
ances for the decencies of life, let alone the amenities, it 
was a miserable den for a person of any refinement to re- 


126 


PATRICK DURBAR 


main cooped up in for some ten days. Sailing from Kotter- 
dam, the steamer had for steerage passengers the most 
motley assortment of the off-seourings of Europe that 
could be imagined. The place was literally packed. Men, 
women and children were huddled in together more like 
cattle than human beings, and jostled against each other, 
and fought their ways to the eating place, and the desir- 
able quarters on the decks like so many slaves or cannibals. 
The steerage being well up in the bows of the vessel, got 
all the force of the pitching, as well as of the breaking 
of the seas over her as she forged her way through the 
water. In any kind of a sea-way the decks were con- 
stantly cold and wet, offering but a scanty choice of dis- 
comforts between those of the upper and the lower regions. 
The air below was at times so heavily charged with the 
sickening body stenches of hundreds of filthy people of the 
very lowest class as to be well nigh unbearable to a man 
of Dobson’s habit of life; but he was afraid to exchange 
into a more comfortable part of the ship, for fear of being 
recognized, and so he put up with it as well as he could. 
The food, as soon as he could bring himself to eat it, was 
about as detestable as the other things about the ship. For 
the stomachs for which it was intended, it perhaps had 
the advantage of familiarity; but this did not apply to 
Dobson; and it was only by force of absolute starvation 
that he could bring himself to eat sauer-krout, a certain 
kind of large pickled herring, or bloater, served raw and 
just as they came out of a large barrel, with a dipper of 
molasses, as a side dish. This was only one of the combin- 
ations of food and drink provided by the bill of fare ; there 
were others equally attractive. About half-way across the 
sea, he one day saw a man of rather better appearance than 
the rest regaling himself upon the leg of a fowl. Well 
knowing that such a delicacy never came from the part 
of the ship he was in, he made so bold as to ask the man 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


12 7 


how he came by the dainty. The man told him that by 
giving the cook in the first cabin galley a sovereign he could 
get all the first cabin food he wanted. Dobson immediately 
acted upon this hint, with a result that for the rest of the 
voyage he lived like a king, as compared with his former 
menage. 

As the ship approached the American side, he became 
nervously worked up over the possibility of his description 
having been cabled over, and of his being met on the wharf 
by a detective and handed over to the tender mercies of 
the New York police force. This fear weighed upon his 
mind until at times he fancied he should go mad. Some 
two weeks had now elapsed since he left London. “What 
is Dunbar doing?” he asked himself a thousand times. 
“What would I do if the positions were reversed, and 
he had robbed me, instead of my having robbed him?” 

“I think I should certainly have his description cabled to 
New York. In fact, I know I should. It would be about 
the first place I should think of as a probable one in which 
to trace him. Ah, if I were only off this horrible ship, 
and once again upon dry land. A man stands a living 
chance on the land; but what chance has he in a place 
like this? In leaving the ship I shall have to pass directly 
under the noses of the plain clothes men Dunbar will have 
placed upon my trail. But what else was there to do? 
I should have been unsafe anywhere in Europe, and I 
should have had to have taken shipping of some kind to 
have gone anywhere else !” 

And so he went on with questions and answers, working 
himself up into a frenzy of terror which was intensified in 
direct proportion to the now rapidly decreasing distance 
between the vessel he was on and the promised land. It 
was with a thrill of apprehension too terrible for words, 
when at last he heard some one say that land would be 
sighted on the morrow. And when it was sighted he al- 


128 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


most swooned with fear. Not to protract this part of our 
narrative, however, too much, at the expense of other mat- 
ters of more importance, suffice it to say, the vessel ar- 
rived in New York on a Saturday afternoon, too late to 
land the steerage passengers, or those among them who 
were not citizens of the United States; which certainly ap- 
plied to Dobson; so they had to remain on board until 
Monday morning. All day Sunday, chained to the wharf, 
with an almost tropical sun beating down upon her, the ves- 
sel lay, crowded with perhaps a thousand miserable immi- 
grants struggling for positions upon the deck from which 
they could get a breath of air. This unlooked-for delay in 
disembarking, added to his other fears and discomforts, 
nearly unbalanced Dobson’s mind; but he got through it, 
as men get through other disagreeable things in this world ; 
and bright and early on Monday he found himself safely 
landed in the haven where he would be. He had passed an 
hour or two of untold mental agony when the gang plank 
had first touched the wharf; but no one seemed to take 
the slightest interest in him, and soon his fears began to 
wear oft. He had been requested by the Custom House 
authorities to fill up a blank form with answers to some 
dozen of questions as to his birthplace, name, age, citizen- 
ship, position in the old world, ultimate destination, pros- 
pective occupation in the new one to which he had immi- 
grated. He filled up this paper with a lot of answers to 
these questions which had just sufficient relevancy to the 
inquiries to permit him to pass, and, as may be imagined, 
with no very great regard to truth. 

At last, having disposed of all the formalities incident 
to an immigrant’s landing in the United States, and with 
a sigh of genuine relief, he was permitted to go about his 
business. He had given the name of Ferguson on the ship’s 
papers, and at the Custom House ; so he determined to stick 
to it for the present. He took his way, upon leaving Castle 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


129 

Garden, to a cheap hotel not far away, where he changed 
his ship’s clothing, took a bath, and generally freshened 
himself up after his long and uncomfortable voyage. Then 
he started out to take a look at the town. Not knowing 
anyone in the place, except his former correspondents, 
Messrs. Moulton & Smith, and not even knowing these 
gentlemen by sight, he felt perfectly safe from recogni- 
tion. Curiosity, however, led him to take a look at the 
environment of a firm of the position he knew his friends 
to occupy, and, so, knowing their address upon Wall Street, 
he soon found himself looking for the names of his friends 
upon a directory of a large building bearing the number to 
which he had often addressed letters in his late dealings 
with them. There is a quality in the human mind which 
leads a man to enjoy getting as near as safety will admit to 
a possible danger. Having found the name he was looking 
for, it occurred to him to get into the elevator and take a 
nearer view of the offices of his late friends. There were 
a number of people already in the car when he entered it. 
It was about to start, when an old gentleman evidently 
wishing to catch it, called out to the attendant to wait 
for him. As the old gentleman passed by Dobson in en- 
tering, to find room in which to stand, another man who 
had been already standing in a corner of the car said to him 
in a low tone, but loud enough for Dobson to hear : “We’ve 
just had a cable from London, Mr. Moulton. The man 
has run away. Dunbar, I think, may be over here before 
long to inquire into matters. Its a very bad case, I fear.” 

Here the elevator stopped, and these gentlemen got out. 
Dobson remained where he was, going to the top of the 
building, where he alighted and walked down the stairway 
and into the street. Pie had heard quite enough in that 
short adventure to convince him that New York was no 
place for him to remain in. Dunbar might be running 
against him, or he against Dunbar, at almost any moment. 


130 


PATRICK DURBAR 


He returned to his hotel, inquired the departure for trains 
to Chicago, and, in an hour’s time was seated in a Pullman 
car, bound for the West. Arrived at this town, he went 
to a good hotel this time, furbished up his general appear- 
ance, now, and began to look about him with a view to 
eventually settling in the place. A restless, unsettled feel- 
ing was upon him, however, the Nemesis of a disapproving 
conscience may have been the moving impulse ; but, he felt 
that although Dunbar was almost certain to never trouble 
him in Chicago, that, before finally settling down, it might 
be as well to put another two or three hundred miles be- 
tween himself and his possible pursuer: “One town is as 
good as another in this country,” he said to himself, “so 
why be in any haste to settle in any, until I have seen more 
of the place ?” 

So he remained long enough to take a good look at Chi- 
cago, and then took a train for San Francisco. Remain- 
ing here for some weeks, and finally by this time feeling 
pretty confident that, even assuming Dunbar to be upon his 
trail, he had secured so long a start as to render it almost 
impossible for him to overtake him, he began to look about 
for some business opening. Being well furnished with 
money, he could afford to take his time ; so he went to work 
very leisurely in the matter. He had put up at the Palace 
Hotel, registering under the name of Ferguson. He now 
took to reading the newspapers carefully, with a view to 
finding an advertisement which might lead to a business 
opening. He also cultivated the acquaintance of the peo- 
ple in the hotel, whom he found affable; and soon be- 
came a favorite in the place. 

Feeling that the practice of law in a new country might 
offer many difficulties to a person unfamiliar with Ameri- 
can jurisprudence, Dobson had determined to accept the 
first opening that came in his way to turn an honest dol- 
lar, without regard to his former training or experience. 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


131 

One day, in conversation with a man he had met in the 
lobby of his hotel, the person asked him with true West- 
ern frankness : “Well, stranger, what’s your game in Cali- 
fomy? What yer goin’ to do?” 

“I hadn’t made up my mind,” replied Dobson, somewhat 
amused at his companion’s interest in him. 

“What yer been brought up to, dry goods?” 

“No, not exactly ; and I’m not very particular as to what 
I go into, as long as its respectable and will afford me an 
occupation.” 

“Got some money, then, I suppose?” 

“Oh, yes, but what made you think of that ?” 

“Well, because no one goes into business in this coun- 
try for simply occupation. Its dollars , and nothin’ else.” 

“What line are you in, might I ask?” 

“Oh, I’m in the mining business; like everyone else in 
my part of the country.” 

“Where’s that?” 

“Virginia City, Nevada.” 

“Well, are there any openings there for a man with a 
little capital, but with no knowledge of the business ?” 

“Lots of ’em. You come along with me, and I’ll put 
you next to all the chances you want.” 

As Dobson came to know this man, whose name was 
Gardner, better, he appeared a bluff, honest kind of fel- 
low, much to his taste; and almost unconsciously he found 
himself getting interested in the wonderful stories he 
heard of the Nevada mines. Finally, he asked permission 
to join Gardner, when he returned to Virginia City; which 
request being enthusiastically granted, he found himself 
on a train with his newly discovered friend, one after- 
noon, with all his belongings, and bound for what at that 
time was one of the most bustling mining centers of the 
world. It was in the times of the great excitement of the 


132 


PATRICK DURBAR 


Comstock Lode mines, and fortunes were being made and 
lost over night on the San Francisco Stock Exchange. 

Arrived at Virginia City, Gardner recommended his 
friend to a fairly comfortable boarding house, promis- 
ing him in due time to put him “next” to a good thing 
in the way of business. Dobson, still retaining the name 
of Ferguson, gradually adopted both the costume, the man- 
ners and customs of a mining town; and soon lost so 
entirely his former identity as to hardly recognize himself; 
let alone being recognizable to anyone else who had ever 
seen him. Before many days had gone over his head, 
Gardner, true to his word, introduced him to some men 
who were going to exploit a mining claim, and Dobson was 
finally induced to join forces with them. 

So, among the kaleidoscopic changes in human life, here 
was rather a remarkable one: A London solicitor taken 
from the dingy surroundings of his former trade and set 
down in an American mining camp, and in the height of a 
mining excitement such as the world has seldom seen. 
Dobson found, however, that he was by no means alone in 
his experience. There were foreigners of every nationality 
to be found at Virginia City at that time. Many who had 
left their respective countries for their country’s good; 
and of course, many of whom this was not true. But in 
any case, it was a bustling, crude, typically Western Ameri- 
can life Dobson found himself in the midst of, and, for a 
man of his age and early associations, it was a somewhat 
difficult task to get accustomed to it. 

His boarding-house keeper was a certain Mrs. Derringer, 
a widow, and a good deal of a character in her way. His 
fellow boarders were mostly mining men of rather the 
better class. That is, mine owners and superintendents, 
and their wives; rather than working men. As he came to 
know these people, he found among them a number whom 
he could easily learn to both like and respect. Mrs. Der- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


133 


ringer, for one, was a woman of most interesting person- 
ality. She either liked or disliked you at sight, and 
seldom changed her opinion. Reared amongst a rough en- 
vironment and people, she had a natural refinement, which, 
while perhaps adapting itself to conditions as she found 
them, still remained a perfectly recognizable quantity in 
her make-up. She evidently did not take kindly to Dobson 
from the first, but took him into her establishment upon 
the recommendation of his friend, Mr. Gardner. 

Mrs. Derringer’s house was a very unpretensious affair. 
A wooden clapboarded house, of two stories, extending over 
considerable ground, and accommodating about twenty 
boarders. The dining room was a long, cheerless-looking 
apartment, with one table running the length of it. The 
cooking was good of its kind, but the kind was that which 
applied to a newly developed country, where more import- 
ant matters than cooking and eating were supposed to oc- 
cupy the public mind. Everything was in abundance, but 
the abundance itself was so much in evidence as at times 
to be oppressive, and to suggest the thought that a much 
less profuse supply of food, better served, would have been 
a welcome improvement. To Dobson’s English ideas of 
cooking, there was altogether too much variety and too 
little plain roast beef and boiled mutton; too many kinds 
of tinned fruits and vegetables, where good honest boiled 
potatoes, turnips and cabbage would have been a more 
inviting bill of fare, according to his preconceived ideas. 
He got himself thoroughly disliked by venturing such an 
opinion, before he had been many days in the place; for 
Mrs. Derringer’s table was a point not only of her religion, 
but of her most sensitive self-gratulation ; and woe to the 
man, woman or child who found fault with it. 

Dobson had invested some twenty thousand dollars in 
his mining venture; and had opened an account in a local 
bank with the rest of his loose money, with the exception of 


134 


PATRICK DURBAR 


a rather considerable sum in actual cash which he re- 
solved to keep upon his person in case of an unlooked for 
necessity for sudden flight. This he had placed in a belt 
which he wore round his body next to his skin. His share 
in the enterprise into which he had put his money was 
represented by stock. A small company had been formed 
to take over an abandoned mining claim which the leaders 
in the undertaking hoped by the employment of new pro- 
cesses to convert into a paying property, as very many of 
such claims had become. Dobson had been made secre- 
tary of the company, with a nominal salary; a position of 
more dignity than usefulness, as judged from either the 
standpoint of his ability to look after his own or the 
interests of the company. 

And here we will leave this worthy gentleman for the 
while, and return to London for the purpose of seeing 
how matters were progressing there. 


CHAPTER X. 


The first thing Dunbar did upon being restored to his 
proper position in the world was to call upon Dobson. The 
answer he received to his inquiry: “Is Mr. Dobson in?” 
was: 

“Mr. Dobson is in Glasgow; sir, and left word if you 
would kindly make an appointment for, say, a few days 
from now, he will be glad to keep it.” 

“Did he leave an address?” 

“Yes, sir; Central Hotel, Glasgow. But he should be 
home by to-morrow or the next day, sir, at the farthest; 
as he’s been gone a week, and he said he should hardly re- 
main over that time.” 

“Very well,” replied Dunbar. “Then please take my 
card into Mr. Griggs.” 

Mr. Griggs was a fussy little man whom Dunbar had 
hardly ever met in his visits to the office. There was an 
air of suppression about this man and his surroundings, 
as Dunbar entered the room. Something was upon his 
mind. 

“Sit down, Mr. Dunbar,” said Griggs, nervously, and 
getting up to offer a chair. “You have come to inquire 
about Dobson, I suppose ?” 

“Yes, Mr. Griggs, I have. Your partner sent for me a 
week ago, but I was prevented from coming; and now I 
am told by your manager that he is out of town. It is very 
important that I see him. When do you expect him 
back?” 


PATRICK DURBAR 


136 

Mr. Griggs’ answer to this question was to get up and 
go to the office door, open it suddenly, as if to assure him- 
self that there was nobody listening, and then, after clos- 
ing and locking it, to return to his seat. “Mr. Dunbar,” 
he said, in an awe-stricken voice, “there is something very 
peculiar in Dobson’s disap — absence. In the first place, 
he never told me he was going away. Then there have 
been a dozen callers here for him, whom I have had to see, 
and not one of them knew anything more of his pro- 
posed visit to Glasgow than I did. One of them, a man 
who knows as much or even more of Dobson’s movements 
than I do, young Gow, was exceedingly troubled and sur- 
prised when he heard the news, and immediately both wrote 
and telegraphed to Dobson at the Central Hotel, Glas- 
gow, only to find that Dobson had not been there at all.” 

“That certainly has a very singular appearance, Mr. 
Griggs,” said Dunbar in considerable alarm. 

“Yes, it has, Mr. Dunbar; but that is not the end of it: 
Although, as you are probably aware, I have nothing what- 
ever to do with Mr. Dobson’s department of the busi- 
ness, in his absence, I, of course, am compelled to answer 
questions, and to do what I can to ease matters over until 
his return. Two or three days ago in getting at some 
bills which were due for payment, I had occasion to go to 
a compartment of our safe to which Dobson has always 
carried the key. He has always been careful to leave this 
key when he has gone away, up to this time ; but he failed 
to do so in this instance; and I was forced to send for a 
locksmith to have it opened. What do you think I found ?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know.” 

“A bundle of old newspapers.” 

“Good God, Mr. Griggs, but in that safe, to my own 
knowledge, were kept a large number of my valuable secur- 
ities. You don’t mean to say that they are missing?” 

“I am very sorry to say, Mr. Dunbar, that I do mean to 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


137 


say that very thing. Whatever papers you had in that safe 
are missing; and I was only in hopes you had come to 
tell me that you had taken them away long before Dob- 
son’s disappearance.” 

“On the contrary, I came to-day to get them. Some- 
thing has told me, it has come to me, that matters were 
not going by any means smoothly with Mr. Dobson, and 
I have been very much alarmed. Have you made a careful 
inspection to ascertain if my papers were not to be found 
in some other place in the safe, or in the office?” 

“Yes, Mr. Dunbar, I have spent hours, days, I might 
say, in just such a search.” 

“Well, and what did you find?” 

“Absolutely nothing.” 

“But this is a serious matter, Mr. Griggs!” 

“Unfortunately you have not heard the end of it yet, 
Mr. Dunbar.” 

“Good God, what next?” 

“You had a rather large sum of ready money in Dob- 
son’s hands, had you not?” 

“Yes, some forty to fifty thousand pounds.” 

“Well, I fear it is all gone.” 

“What?” 

“I find that Dobson has lost heavily in his transactions 
for some years past. He must have been very deeply in 
debt when your property came into his hands. By means 
of your money, he has evidently been able for some time 
to recuperate a little; but some very shady men, like Gow, 
and two or three others I could name, have evidently been 
using him as a financial cat’s-paw in their bill transactions, 
and have had him in their power, until a crisis arrived 
which he could not meet; and, I am pained to say it, but 
I fear my partner has run away !” 

The little man, who was evidently perfectly honest in 
his expression of surprise and horror at the position he 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


I 3 8 

found himself in, now almost collapsed, and, for a mo- 
ment Dunbar almost forgot his own anxieties in his 
solicitude for the man sitting before him. 

As a result of this interview, a general investigation, 
not only into Dobson’s affairs but into those of the firm to 
which he belonged was instituted, from which it became 
painfully evident that the concern was hopelessly bank- 
rupt. Dobson had completely gutted it. By this failure 
Dunbar not only lost a large sum of money and a quantity 
of valuable securities, but the deeds to his place in the 
country and to his house in town. Dobson had made a 
clean sweep of everything; even of things which could be 
of no possible value to him, but the loss of which would 
put their owners to the greatest possible inconvenience. 
The question now arose as to what was to be done. In- 
cidentally Dunbar’s old friend Inspector Evans was called 
in for consultation. As showing that the police are some- 
times very much at sea for a departure in following up 
a case like this, Inspector Evans gave it as his opinion 
that Dobson had not yet left London. “London is the 
best place in the world for a man to hide in,” he said, in 
a professional tone of voice, “Best assured he will remain 
quietly in London for some days, until he thinks we have 
stopped looking for him, and then he will take a run over 
to Paris and hide there for awhile.” 

“Where will he go then?” asked Dunbar. 

“Probably to Spain; possibly to South America.” 

“Why not to the United States?” 

“Oh, well, because, for one reason, he’d expect us to be 
lookin’ for ’im there.” 

“So his saying he’d gone to Glasgow was only a blind ?” 

“To be sure,” said the Inspector, almost contemptuously. 
“That’s done every day.” 

And so they had it, to and fro ; the matter boiling itself 
down finally into this: If Dunbar was willing to make a 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


139 

formal complaint, and then to follow the matter up ac- 
tively with money and vindictiveness, something in the 
way of a clue might be found which would ultimately lead 
to a capture; but, failing in this, nothing would be done. 
Of course, if Inspector Evans should meet Dobson in the 
streets of London, and should recognize him, he would 
arrest him; but this was hardly likely. Dunbar thought 
the matter carefully over, and then concluded to do noth- 
ing. He had had a little taste of what arrest and im- 
prisonment meant ; and he had a fellow-feeling for a man, 
however guilty he might be, who was to come within the 
pale of the criminal law. He was not vindictive. Dob- 
son’s arrest, even if accomplished, would hardly restore his 
property; while it would injure his innocent family. No, 
Dobson, for all he should do to detain him, might go to the 
ends of the world, and remain there. He would be pun- 
ished enough in his exile. 

Of course, he tried to save all he could from the wreck ; 
and in this effort he was ably seconded by Mr. Griggs, 
who proved himself an honest man, as well as a deeply in- 
jured one. But, with the very best intentions in the 
world, nothing can come of nothing; and that was all 
there was to it. Dunbar found himself pitying the man 
far more than he blamed him, and ended up by privately 
settling a small annuity upon him to keep himself and 
family out of the poor house. As to his saving anything, 
he saw the case was absolutely hopeless ; and he wisely gave 
up trying. 

The effect of this upheaval upon Gow and his friends 
had been disastrous indeed. In Dobson’s disappearance 
not only had these men lost their cat’s-paw; they had lost 
the chestnut and the hot stove as well. Credit had been 
running very low with them for a long time back, but 
Dobson’s name had always been one to conjure with, for 
the reason that he being in the mud quite as much as Gow 


140 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


and his friends were in the mire, in his efforts to save him- 
self he was unavoidably assisting in saving them. Of 
course Gow and his friends had well known that a crisis 
was approaching. Nothing else could be expected from 
the long continued run of bad luck they had been having: 
losses at cards, losses on the turf, heavy, and ever increas- 
ing expenses of all kinds ; and, finally, an almost complete 
stoppage of credit in every quarter. And now Dobson had 
failed them. Had turned up missing. Had, in plain 
terms, run away, defaulted. In all their speculations as to 
what he would probably do when the climax arrived, this 
had not occurred to them; or if at all, but vaguely. 

As matters stood now, something would have to be done, 
and that right speedily, or very serious consequences stared 
them in the face. As their whole reliance in the matter of 
raising the wind had for a long time been grounded upon 
bill discounting, and, as all sources of discount had now 
dried up by reason of Dobson’s defalcation, the only hope 
for the future lay in, first, getting a new supply of bills; 
second, in finding a place in which to discount them. Both 
of these expedients, as matters now stood, were extremely 
difficult of accomplishment. Their own names had been 
“blown upon” from Dan to Beersheba in the financial cir- 
cle of London; which has been described as an exceedingly 
small one, but as “a circle of fire!” Dor discredited men 
to go to people who had howsoever little financial standing 
left and ask them to lend their assistance in making up 
a batch of bills for the market, was like the blind leading 
the blind; and yet something of the kind had to be done, 
and done at once, or all these lively young blades, of whom 
Gow was “facile princeps” would end up in Queer Street ; 
and in the very shadiest part of that shady street, at that. 

Gow had a small office at the top of one of the rather 
shabby buildings in Great St. Helens. He and lord Yen- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


141 

nor were sitting in it, one day about this time, discussing 
their affairs: 

“I assume that you could no more do a little bill than 
you could lift the national debt, my lord?” said Gow. 

“You assume correctly, my boy,” answered his lordship. 

“And you know as well where to find some new bills as 
I do, and that’s nowhere.” 

“Correct again.” 

“Vennor,” said Gow, turning and looking the young 
man full in the face, “there’s no earthly good in telling 
you again that something’s got to be done; for you know 
that as well as I do. You and I will soon have a choice 
between leaving England for a rather indefinitely pro- 
tracted time, or of spending some months in the debtor’s 
side of Holloway Castle. Now, I don’t know how it strikes 
you, but I do not like either prospect particularly well ; and 
I’m going to make some kind of a move to avoid both of 
them. The question is, have you sand enough in your crop 
to join forces with me, or will you take your own chances 
of finding a way out of your difficulties?” 

“I could answer that question much more intelligently 
if I knew your plan,” said Vennor, in a half sulky, half 
suspicious tone. 

“And I don’t propose to fully state my plan,” said Gow, 
“until you agree to come into it; so what are we to do?” 

“I don’t know.” 

It was summer time, and the office windows looking into 
the court were open. The young men sat gloomily looking 
at the church, and watching a man who was engaged in 
raking the paths in the little enclosure about it. 

“It’s needless to 6 ay,” said Gow, after rather a long 
pause, “that no ordinary scheme is going to answer in our 
case. Something out of the ordinary it’s got to be to 
save our necks. 80 much of my plan I’m willing to tell 
you.” 


142 


PATRICK DURBAR 


“You might as well tell me nothing , for I knew as much 
as that already.” 

“Well, Fll go just as much farther as to say that my 
plan includes something that, under certain conditions, 
would be called rather a hard name. That’s positively as 
far as I shall go, however, until you make up your mind, 
once and for all whether or no you are with me in the 
plan.” 

“I think I know what you mean, Gow,” answered his 
companion,” with rather a frightened look, “and don’t 
go any farther until I ask you a question : Supposing your 
plan to be what I think it is, wouldn’t it be much bet- 
ter for me not to know it?’ I mean, of course, by that, 
couldn’t I be of more use to you in assisting you to carry 
out your plan, whatever it is, by being absolutely ignorant 
of what you are about?” 

Gow thought a moment. “If I could feel perfectly 
sure you would never round on me in case of trouble, yes ; 
but, if you were to try to get out of any responsibility in 
the matter by putting your own share as well as mine on 
my shoulders, why, no,” he answered. 

“That’s exactly what I’m getting at,” said Yennor. If 
I absolutely know nothing of your plan, I shall have no 
responsibility, and therefore cannot shift it upon you or 
anyone else.” 

“In other words, you are willing to reap your share of 
the advantage of my plan without taking your share of the 
risk? Not if I know it!” 

“Very well, then, count me out; and go ahead on your 
own lines,” said Yennor, coolly, at the same time rising 
from his seat, as if about to leave the room. 

“Wait a moment, my lord,” said Gow, nervously, “we 
may be able to come to terms in this matter, yet. Answer 
me one question: ‘If I should supply you with an ab- 
solutely good bill, could you get it done ?’ ” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


M3 


“Yes, I have no doubt I could.” 

“'And if, after a time, there should anything be found 
out about the bill — ■” 

“Stop there, Gow,” said Vennor, with an imperious 
gesture. “You have asked your question, and I have 
answered it. I could discount an absolutely good bill. 
Now, let it go at that. It will be much better for you 
and me to bring this conversation to a close where it is. 
When you get your absolutely good bill, bring it to me, and 
I will endorse it and have it discounted, upon the usual 
terms, of course, an equal division of the spoils. But it 
must be absolutely good , mind you.” 

And here his lordship got up and left the office, leaving 
Gow to his reflections. 

“I think its safe enough,” he said to himself. “The beg- 
gar knows perfectly well what I mean; and, knowing that, 
he can’t very well split upon me. Besides, there really is 
nothing to say ; that is, any more to say than it would be 
perfectly natural for him to say under the circumstances. 
Forgery has an ugly sound, it is true; but many forged 
bills are discounted by our banks, and are paid at maturity, 
and it is never known that they were forged. The thing 
is to always be ready with the coin to pay such a bill and 
take it out of the bank’s hands the moment they begin to 
smell anything wrong about it.” 

Saying this, Gow went to his desk, rummaged about 
awhile, and finally extracted a bundle of letters. He opened 
them, carefully examined the writing in them, particu- 
larly the signatures; and then, taking his pen, he began 
to carefully imitate the writing. 

In the meantime, Dunbar had been looking farther into 
his affairs, and had come to the conclusion that the only 
thing left for him to do was to go immediately to New 
York for the purpose of consulting his agents there, Messrs. 
Moulton and Smith. Large remittances were due at any 


144 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


time now, and he had cabled these gentlemen to refrain 
from sending them until further orders, or until he could 
see them in person. He then put his affairs into such con- 
dition as to be able to leave them temporarily, notified his 
mother and sisters of his intended trip, booked his pas- 
sage on a Cunard steamer sailing from Liverpool, and in 
a short time was following quite unconsciously in the 
footsteps of Dobson across the Atlantic ; only, under rather 
more favorable conditions. Arrived in New York, he 
looked up his friends, who were surprised enough at the 
tale he had to tell them of the rascality of their London 
friends. 

Of course, the hole made in his fortune by Dobson’s de- 
falcation was, in proportion to its extent and size, a small 
matter. Some hundreds of thousands of dollars would 
probably cover the loss, always excepting, the inconven- 
ience, the wear and tear upon one’s nerves of such an ex- 
perience and the necessity of making new arrangements 
as to the management of his affairs. The more he saw of 
his New York agents, the more reason he found to be per- 
fectly satisfied with them. They were evidently gentlemen 
of high standing in the community, and of tried honesty. 
Moreover, of course, they were thoroughly conversant with 
his estate from long familiarity with its details. He there- 
fore resolved to go on as he had before, implicity trusting 
these men; while resolving to be his own manager at the 
London end of the line for the future. Taking advantage 
of his stay in New York, Dunbar now proceeded to go 
over with Mr. Moulton the schedule of his properties and 
investments, and, as far as possible, to personally inspect 
each piece of land. During this inspection he was re- 
peatedly amazed at the extent of his possessions, and the 
prospective increase in their values. New York then, as 
it is to-day, was advancing by leaps and bounds towards 
the northern end of the island; and Dunbar could see 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


145 


with half an eye that his property would go on doubling 
up in value to a fabulous extent. Not being a particularly 
avaricious person, he took as much, but no more, interest 
in all this as became a well-bred young Englishman who 
had yet to become Americanized into expressing a very great 
enthusiasm for the acquisition of real estate. He had now 
quite as much as he needed; why ask or wish for more? 
Interesting, even exciting, as Mr. Moulton’s prophesies 
were as to the probable price at which such and such a 
piece of land would sell, some of these days, Dunbar could 
never be moved to say more than, “Oh, ah, really,” or words 
to that effect. 

One day, while in the upper part of the island looking 
over some lots Mr. Moulton had advised him to use some 
loose money he had in buying, Dunbar looking rather 
bored, and uninterested, Moulton said to him, “Mr. Dun- 
bar, I fear you have something on your mind. Would it 
be presuming too much to ask you what it is ?” 

“Not at all, Mr. Moulton,” the young man replied, smil- 
ing. “I was thinking of the brave women I have robbed 
of all this wealth, and wondering how they were getting 
on, and whether or no they have ever forgiven me.” 

“It would be an easy matter to have that question 
answered by the ladies themselves, my young friend; for 
we are at present within a five minutes walk of their home, 
and I feel sure enough of my ground to say that they 
would be very glad to see you, if you did them the honor of 
calling upon them.” 

“With all my heart, Mr. Moulton; nothing in life would 
give me greater pleasure. Only, you understand, I should 
be pained to think that I should in any way offend them, 
or run any chance of offending them, by my real and un- 
affected interest in their welfare. Perhaps it would be 
better, for this reason, to defer our visit until after you 
have seen and ascertained their pleasure in the matter.” 


to 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


146 

“I have already done so, Mr. Dunbar, and I can assure 
you that they will be as pleased to see you, as you will be 
to see them.” 

The matter having been thus happily settled, they now 
bent their steps in the direction of the Murphys’ home. 
Arriving at the entrance gate, Dunbar’s quick eye imme- 
diately took in the general air of dilapidation which had 
settled upon all the surroundings, and which has already 
been described. His heart, always open to such impres- 
sions, began to bleed for the gentlewomen whose high 
sense of honor had made him a rich man at such a cost to 
themselves. The gate itself which had been proudly swung 
open to admit splendid equipages and fine ladies and gen- 
tlemen in its day, now hung to its stone gate-post by 
only one rusty hinge, and was with the greatest difficulty 
induced to open at all. Once inside the grounds, the in- 
dications of decadent opulence multiplied at every turn. 
It was a sorrowful sight to anyone; but to the man who 
felt he had much reason to consider himself the cause of it, 
it came as a revelation indeed. They reached the house, 
rang the door bell, and waited patiently on the porch for 
some one to answer their summons. Mr. Moulton, hav- 
ing had this experience before, explained the seeming in- 
hospitality of their reception in a manner highly credita- 
ble to his inherent goodness of heart. “You must excuse 
it, Mr. Dunbar,” he said, after they had waited some five 
to ten minutes with no prospect whatever of gaining ad- 
mission to the house. “The ladies are not accustomed to 
receiving calls, and the servants have gradually fallen into 
slovenly ways of receiving visitors. Our welcome will be 
none the less hearty, however, on this account.” 

“I am sure of it,” replied Dunbar, cheerily, “and I only 
regret troubling such estimable and noble women as I know 
your friends to be.” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


147 


As Dunbar said this, the door was opened by the uncom- 
promising old family servant, who by this time had come 
to recognize in Mr. Moulton a person who need no longer 
be as carefully watched as hitherto; and the gentlemen 
were admitted. 


CHAPTER XI. 


Many years after the event, Dunbar, in speaking of it, 
said: “The entrance of Helena Murphy into the room 
where Mr. Moulton and I were sitting was far more than 
an ordinary occurrence. It was her entrance into my life. 
Never had I experienced such a thrill in meeting a woman 
before. Whether it Was that Fate had busied herself in 
preparing both our minds, hers and mine, for the com- 
munion which was ours afterwards, or whether it was the 
incomparable charm and presence of the woman herself, 
I know not. All I know is that I recognized my destiny 
in Helena Murphy the moment I saw her, as fully and as 
completely as I have recognized it ever since. Possibly, 
the admiration I had felt for her as the result of her and 
her mother’s noble treatment of me, may have been a 
determining factor in the case; but I think not, or only 
partially so. There must surely have been something else ; 
for the nobility of her conduct had appealed to only one 
of my senses ; whereas she herself appealed to all of them ! 
If she were not in truth the most beautiful woman in the 
world, she certainly was so to me. If she were not the 
most queenly creature in the world, at least she was such 
to me. If she were not the most lovable, charming, frank, 
open, ingenuous, loyal, tender, fearless, honest, sincere per- 
son in the world, she appeared all of these to me; and has 
appeared so ever since !” 

“And so you don’t look upon me altogether as a rob- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


149 

ber ?” Dunbar had said, after he had been duly presented 
to the ladies. 

“By no means, Mr. Dunbar,” replied Helena, looking 
towards her mother, as if for a confirmation of what she 
was saying. “You have only come by your own; and we 
had the pleasure of helping you to come by it. That’s all.” 

“Yes, my dear Miss Murphy, but who would have had 
the honesty to spend years of time and no end of money 
in endeavoring to find a man who was going to strip them 
of wealth which might so easily have been their’s ?” 

“Oh, but that was a matter of simple honesty, Mr. Dun- 
bar. No honest person could have done less; and, as it 
is, we are still in your debt, owing to the generous provi- 
sion you have made for us.” 

“I really think you young people would do well to strike 
out into some other field of discussion,” broke in Mr. Moul- 
ton, here, “for, knowing both sides of this whole matter as 
I do, I can justly say the honors were easy. It was a real 
delight, measured from the standpoint of a lawyer’s daily 
experience of such affairs, to find two parties to a trans- 
action which was enriching the one and impoverishing the 
other, so unselfish, so easily accommodated, and so anxious 
to do all that was right and proper ; to his own loss, and to 
the other’s gain.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Moulton,” said both Helena and Dun- 
bar, at a breath, and then Dunbar went on: “I recognize 
the delicacy of your advice in suggesting another topic of 
conversation, Mr. Moulton, as I am well aware that busi- 
ness matters are not as a rule to be discussed in the pres- 
ence of ladies; but I will confess now to an ulterior pur- 
pose in coming to New York, besides the apparent one; 
and that was to secure an opportunity to lay before Mrs. 
Murphy and her daughter the grateful tribute of my ad- 
miration of their noble conduct ; and I fear that even you, 
my kind friend, could hardly prevail against my doing so.” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


150 

Anyone intently watching Helena’s face as Dunbar said 
these words could not have failed to see the flush of grati- 
fied pride and pleasure which mantled upon her cheeks; 
or the light that came into her eyes. All the more so, that 
she was by no means a demonstrative person, but rather 
the reverse. There is, however, a common ground upon 
which noble and kindred souls meet, and love to meet; 
an atmosphere in which both breathe freely; a plane upon 
which they mingle in the equality of their common nobil- 
ity, and freely recognize each other. Such a communion 
and such a meeting had been theirs. It might take a week, 
or a month, or a year to mature the flower that had that 
day been planted in their hearts; but nothing could pre- 
vent it from maturing; and nothing did. 

Dunbar came away from this visit with a new and ab- 
sorbing interest in his life. Even Moulton, keen, cold 
man of the law that he was, saw it; and seemed to be 
pleased through and through at the turn matters had 
taken. It was not until many years afterwards that the 
old gentleman frankly confessed the little plot by which 
he had brought the two young people together. It was 
no accident by which they had been near the Murphys’ 
home when Dunbar had spoken of his desire to be pre- 
sented to the ladies. Unconsciously he had already been 
near it upon several previous occasions, in the carrying out 
of Mr. Moulton’s little plan of action; but the latter had 
judiciously waited for the young man to speak. There 
was a residuum of romance in the old gentleman’s make- 
up which his long dealings with the world had failed to 
obliterate. He was proud and happy at the success of 
his efforts. “It was a grand stroke,” he said, in speaking 
of the matter, upon the occasion referred to. “It was the 
proper, and logical and natural ending of the story, the 
union of two noble souls; and I thank God that I was 
made His humble instrument in carrying it out.” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


151 

“Yes, but you might have told me what a fine girl she 
was,” Dunbar had replied to this remark. “Just think of 
the time I had lost which might have been so much better 
employed.” 

“Perhaps so,” said the old man, with an inward chuckle, 
“but you would never have discovered this peerless woman 
half so effectively through my eyes as you did through your 
own.” 

Dunbar had taken apartments at the Clarendon Hotel, 
Union Square; in those days a highly respectable and ex- 
clusive house. Hot being engaged in any more pressing 
business than an inspection of his affairs, he now resolved to 
make it his business to cultivate the acquaintance of Helena 
Murphy to the exclusion of every other interest in his life. 
There were some difficulties in the way; in the first place, 
the young lady and her mother had been so long out of 
the world that it was a task of no mean dimensions to 
bring them back into it. They had evidently become 
wedded to their solitude, and seemed reluctant to have 
it disturbed. Then, there being no man in the family, 
a thousand and one little opportunities for impromptu 
visits and other social happenings and accidents were 
wanting. More than this, there was pride; family pride 
and poverty pride. The Murphys in their day and gen- 
eration had been considerable people in town. They were 
in reduced circumstances now, it was true; but their pride 
was as active as ever. Then, Mrs. Murphy was a very old 
lady by this time ; and to the disabilities of age and failing 
strength was added the dislike that old age so often evinces 
for new faces and changed conditions. In a word, Dun- 
bar found himself somewhat in a position of a man who 
had discovered a gold-mine in an inaccessible country: 
While fully alive to its value, its possession was of little 
use to him until he could extract his treasure from the 
ground and get it to market. 


152 


PATRICK DURBAR 


Perhaps the greatest obstacle of all that lay in his way 
was the high mindedness of the young lady herself, whose 
pride would take instant alarm at anything that smacked 
of condescension upon the part of young Dunbar. She 
had been glad to see him in the first instance, partly from 
motives of gratitude, partly from those of curiosity, partly 
because their old family lawyer and friend had wished to 
present him. All this had been happily accomplished now, 
and the incident was closed. To reopen, and to keep it 
open would require some finesse; but Dunbar was not a 
man to be easily discouraged, especially when his heart 
was enlisted, as it certainly was in this instance. The 
thing that troubled him now was where and how to begin. 
In those days the means of communication between the 
lower and upper ends of Manhattan Island were meagre. 
Of course, he could drive or ride, but that necessitated a 
good deal of formality. A horse or carriage had probably 
not entered the driveway to the Murphys’ home for 
years. Such an entrance now would constitute an event in 
the family history which would be talked of for as many 
more. A casual and unannounced call, while strolling 
in the vicinity of the place would startle the family, all 
the way from the old watch dog, through the two old 
servants, up to the ladies themselves in a manner to en- 
tirely strip it of its ease and naturalness; besides frighten- 
ing away the very bird he was setting his snares to catch. 
“In vain is the net spread in the sight of any bird.” 

Upon leaving the ladies upon the occasion of his first 
call, they had politely asked him to call again, it was true ; 
but any one could see with half an eye that the invitation 
was rather perfunctory. Fate, however, through the 
instrumentality of Mr. Moulton, removed at one stroke 
one of our hero’s greatest difficulties; namely, the distance 
between himself and the lady of his choice. Moulton had 
a country place so near the Murphys’ as at one time to 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


153 

have formed a portion of the original farm settled upon 
by the Hammonds. In fact, a portion of the two estates 
adjoined each other now. One day, as Dunbar was in 
Mr. Moulton’s office, the latter spoke up and said: “Mr. 
Dunbar, come and stop with us for a few weeks in the 
country. The change of air will do you good, and both 
Mrs. Moulton and I would be delighted to have you with 
us.” 

Such an invitation, under such conditions, was not to 
be declined ; and in due time Dunbar found himself within 
a very easy distance of his lady-bird’s nest; and then 
began his real endeavor to get still nearer. In this he was 
aided and abetted by Mrs. Moulton, who, it appeared, was 
a match-maker; as very many of her sex are. This kindly 
old lady, to begin with, had insisted upon Dunbar’s calling 
with her upon the Murphys in such a cosy and informal 
manner as to place matters upon a surer footing for a con- 
tinuance of his advance upon the entrenchments than 
months of patient waiting or of strategy would have ac- 
complished, if left to himself. Of course, during this 
call it transpired that Dunbar was staying with the 
Murphys’ neighbors, the Moultons ; which, naturally 
enough, was notice to Helena and her mother that they 
were expected to do something to help entertain the young 
man. Now, as anything in the way of social doings was 
practically impossible, situated as the Murphys were, and 
as it was almost equally impossible for Helena to leave 
her mother for any length of time, nothing of a formal 
nature was attempted by anyone in the way of intercourse 
between the two families; but, possibly, for this very 
reason, both families tacitly came to an agreement to re- 
move rather than to maintain all the barriers that stood 
in the way of an interchange of informal civilities. The 
ladies called upon each other almost daily, and upon the 


154 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


occasion of those calls Dunbar was pretty sure to be present 
at either the one house or the other. 

The time was summer, and everything made it pleasant 
for Dunhar to stroll about the country lanes that existed 
at that time. Upon one of these walks he had inadvertently 
come to that portion of Mr. Moulton’s land which adjoined 
the Murphys’; for, in looking over the fence his eye rested 
upon an old and very much neglected garden. In the 
garden there stood a rustic building, which in its day must 
have had certain pretensions to beauty ; but its day had long 
since past. In a summer-house there sat a young lady 
intent upon a book, and a careful inspection of the young 
lady revealed no less a person than Helena Murphy. Now, 
to the ordinary, everyday sort of young man, the first im- 
pulse would have urged him to climb the fence, which 
was an easy enough thing to do, it being by no means a 
high one, and, to present himself to the young lady seated 
in the arbor, as a perfectly natural and proper thing to do. 
But here Dunbar’s early training restrained him. He had 
been brought up in England; where young people are 
seldom allowed to be alone with each other unless they 
are related. Then again, he had an idea, probably a cor- 
rect one, that it would require only a very slight error 
of either taste or judgment upon his part to dissipate any 
possible chances he might have in the direction of winning 
the young lady whose back he could see at present turned 
towards him, in entire unconsciousness of his presence. 
Whatever he might have dared in the pursuit of an ordinary 
acquaintance with an ordinary young woman, he could 
afford to take no risks with this one. Helena was to him 
hedged about by the sanctity of maidenly reserve, just 
now, as much as if she had been in her boudoir, or even 
her dressing room. Her attitude of perfect self-abandon- 
ment suggested a feeling of absolute security from obser- 
vation which had become all the more secure from long, 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


*55 


custom and absence of intrusion. To ruthlessly break in 
upon and surprise such maidenly privacy would be a gross 
breach of good manners, to put it mildly ; or so it appeared 
to Dunbar. 

Very reluctantly, therefore, he was turning away, re- 
solved to some day playfully allude to the summer-house, 
and possibly thereby secure admission to it, when an 
incident occurred which gave an unexpected turn to the 
affair: Upon entering the field within which he was now 
standing he had noticed a bull, but at such a distance 
from him as to negative any idea of danger from him. 
Upon turning round, now, however, intending to beat a 
silent retreat, he was astonished to find that while his at- 
tention had been directed towards the garden and its 
occupant, the bull had so far shifted his position as to be 
now standing in absolutely the best strategic spot he could 
have chosen for cutting off Dunbar’s retreat ; that is, 
his retreat in the direction he would have preferred to 
take it. More than this, the bull was evidently in no 
trifling mood; but, on the contrary, showed every sign of 
an instant opening up of hostilities. He had, in fact, evi- 
dently been quietly waiting for Dunbar to turn round, so 
that he could have a good look at him, as a signal for his at- 
tack. Nothing could have happened to more clearly and 
fully explain Helena’s feeling of perfect security from 
intrusion from the quarter from which Dunbar had ap- 
proached her bower. She well knew that she had a sentinel 
on guard upon whom she could rely; and she had given 
herself no possible anxiety upon that score. 

Now Dunbar was brave enough, but here was an in- 
stance where unquestionably other qualities than personal 
courage came into play. In a twinkling of an eye he had 
measured the distance to be crossed in traversing the field 
in the direction he had started to go, and had perceived 
the utter impossibility of making it before the bull would 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


I 5 6 

be upon him. In fact, he was upon him already; and 
with a bellow which went far to say, “Fll teach you to 
meddle with my affairs, young man,” the animal lowered 
his head and charged him. Under the circumstances Dun- 
bar did the only thing there was left for him to do; he 
retreated in the direction of the Murphys’ garden, in not 
altogether good order, at that; and soon found himself 
upon the desirable side of the fence, in the Murphys’ 
garden, and also standing in the presence of the young 
lady he had only a few brief minutes ago been fleeing 
from. Helena had heard the roar of the angry bull, had 
looked up from her book, had taken in the position of 
affairs at a glance, and had instinctively hastened to the 
scene of action. 

“You have had a narrow escape, Mr. Dunbar,” she said, 
as soon as she recovered from the effect of her first fright. 
“That animal has already severely injured several people, 
and has only been kept in this field because it was sup- 
posed to be so remote from any thoroughfare as to make it 
improbable that anyone would attempt to pass this way.” 

“From which accident, I am afraid, I must measure 
the extent of my trespass, Miss Murphy; but my apology 
is that I had no idea, I could have had none, that in 
following the path I had taken I was in any way destined 
to intrude upon your privacy. I trust you will forgive 
me, and, if you will kindly show me any way of leaving you 
which will obviate the necessity of facing that pugnacious 
animal, I will take my departure immediately.” 

There is in every difficult situation a natural and a 
strained way of getting out of it. It is true that people 
usually select the latter; but there are exceptions to this 
rule, and Helena was the exception. It was a summer’s 
day. Dunbar looked hot and uncomfortable, the vine- 
covered retreat she had just left looked cool and inviting. 
There was no earthly reason why she should not do it, 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


157 

and a good many reasons why she should ; so, motioning 
the way to Dunbar, she invited him to her bower, where 
they were soon comfortably seated. She had taken the 
obvious and natural way out of the dilemma, as a sensible 
woman of her stamp might be relied upon to do. 

To see them seated side by side in the shade of vine 
and tree, the young man, a fine fellow, well made, blond, 
blue-eyed, clean looking, modest in appearance and man- 
ner; in a word, the best type of the English youth, and 
the young woman, tall, stately, dark, somewhat reserved, 
one would have said they were a couple in a thousand, 
and as fully intended for each other as if they had been 
respectively the last and only man and woman left upon 
the earth; as Adam and Eve were the first. 

“And now, Mr. Dunbar, you may tell me, if you like, 
how we Americans impress you ?” Helena began, after they 
were comfortably seated. 

“Well, Miss Murphy, you see, or possibly, you don't 
see, but it is true, nevertheless,” Dunbar answered, “you 
put me in rather an awkward predicament in asking me 
such a question. Its like a man receiving an invitation 
from the queen; its a command. I’m bound to answer it 
whether I like or dislike.” 

Helena smiled. “I had no idea of the seriousness of the 
question, or I assure you I should not have asked it; but, 
as you have now excited my curiosity, and as I can’t very 
well withdraw the question, I’m afraid you will have to 
answer it.” 

“Its a little cruel, I think you will admit, but, if you 
adhere to your command I am too good a subject to dis- 
obey; but don’t hold me responsible if you don’t like my 
answer.” 

“I’m afraid, from the way you go about it, you’re going 
to say something disparaging to my country people, and 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


I 5 8 

I'm almost sorry now I didn’t withdraw the question, after 
all.” 

“Its too late now; and this is my answer: In putting 
you forward as a specimen of American womanhood, Miss 
Murphy, your country people have lost all the chance of 
winning my approval they ever had; for all the other 
women must suffer by contrast.” 

“My question included the men as well as the women,” 
replied Helena, coloring slightly, however, as if she had by 
no means lost the intended compliment. 

“Oh, well, as to the men, they can take care of them- 
selves. Some I like, and some I dislike, as always hap- 
pens ; not only in America, but all the world over.” 

“So, then, I am to understand that your interest confines 
itself exclusively to the women of our country, am I ?” 

This answer, simple enough in itself as it was, supplied 
Dunbar with an inspiration; or it set him to thinking, 
and the thinking soon led up to the inspiration, as often 
happens. His thought expressed in words was this: “As 
some day I fully intend to ask this woman to be my wife, 
why not now, as well as any other time? By George, I’ll 
do it.” 

As has already been said, it was in the summer time; 
but it was late summer, and already a few stray fallen 
leaves betrayed the approach of autumn, while the golden 
sunshine was just mellowing with the purple haze which 
gilds its speedy departure. In a few short weeks it would 
be gone, and all Nature would begin her preparations for 
the ensuing winter. If any season of the year suggests the 
warmth, the glow of the cosy fireside, the delight of home, 
the perfect bond of love, it is this. Inversely, as Nature 
divests herself of her summer raiment and prepares to go 
into mourning for the winter, man rejoices in his heart at 
the picture of the home life which winter brings with it. 
That is, the man whose heart is right. If such a man 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


*59 


ever feels the need of companionship and love, it is when 
all Nature seems able to get on without it. He grows warm 
as she grows cold. Then Dunbar took a furtive glance 
at Helena. There she sat, as yet, certainly, to all outward 
appearing, totally unconscious of what was going on in 
his mind. His unforseen intrusion upon her privacy 
had surprised her in a simple calico dress, exquisitely fresh 
and suited to her, to be sure ; but not the toilette in which 
she would have received him, if it had been left to her 
choice. There she sat in the dilapidated summer-house in 
the midst of the neglected garden. In a few short weeks 
the leaves would begin to fall in earnest. The last remain- 
ing summer flowers which now were so bright and full of 
perfume, would all too soon become dry and unsightly 
stalks, upon which the frost and rime of winter would 
cling as a winding sheet upon a skeleton. A neglected 
garden symbolizes a lonely and neglected heart at all 
times, but never so much as in winter. Had all this 
been seen and felt by Helena? No one in God’s world 
could answer that question but she herself; and she would 
not. Then Dunbar looked into the future, her future. 
In a short time at the best this gracious woman would 
be left absolutely alone in the world; for her mother 
was well-stricken in years. Could anything in the prospect, 
in Helena’s prospect of the future be more utterly dismal 
and depressing than the thought of what her life would be 
in that empty, silent house, surrounded by that neglected 
garden when she came to be left alone in the world? As 
it was, her life was lonely; what would it be then? 

All these things flashed through the young man’s mind, 
together, naturally enough, with the thought of the risk 
he ran in putting his fortune to the touch with no more 
notice than he was giving the unsuspecting girl who sat 
demurely before him. However, he was not a man to 
draw back, once having made up his mind: “Yes, Miss 


i6o 


PATRICK DURBAR 


Murphy,” he now replied to that young lady’s question 
as to his exclusive interest in the women of the country, 
“Yes, I confess to that, and I will confess to even more. 
My interest in the American woman has concentrated 
itself upon you , among not only the women of America, 
but the women of all the world. So much so, in fact, that 
I have made up my mind to make you my wife, at any 
cost. Possibly this may appear to you rather an abrupt 
manner of speaking of such an important matter, but it 
is no more abrupt than the manner in which the animal 
in the adjacent field ushered me into your presence a short 
time ago ; for which act, although unpremeditated, I thank 
him with all my heart. It was an augury of the most 
beneficent kind to me, and I accept it joyfully, as I place 
myself, together with the fortune of which I have stripped 
you and your poor mother at your feet. Nay, hear me 
out.” Helena had made a movement as if intending to 
retire from the scene ; but Dunbar gently held her back as 
he went on: 

“Now, Helena, listen to me; for, if ever a man was in 
earnest, I am that man. I have made up my mind to 
take you back to England with me as my wedded wife. 
I swear to you that I shall never return to England with- 
out you, and I shall never give up my suit for you. I 
love you; I have loved you ever since I came to know 
anything of the nobility of your character; and I shall go 
on loving you until the end of time ; so you might as well 
take pity upon me now as at any other time, and put me 
out of my misery.” 

Here, the enthusiastic young man seized both of Helena’s 
hands, and raising them to his lips kissed them as rev- 
erently as if they had been a saint’s. No living man 
has ever fathomed a woman’s heart, and no living man, 
it is pretty safe to say, ever will. Admitting this state- 
ment, at any rate, for the sake of argument, it paves the 


PATRICK DURBAR 


161 


way to go farther and state with equal confidence that 
no living man can tell how a woman wishes to be ap- 
proached upon the most eventful epoch of her life; the 
epoch which is to transform her from a maiden into a 
wife. There must have been something in Helena’s heart 
which responded to and understood Dunbar’s method of 
approach; for she evinced very little astonishment pro- 
portionately to the extreme suddenness of the attack; but, 
on the contrary, appeared to rather like it. 

“There is one thing you appear to have overlooked, 
Mr. Dunbar, in your declaration,” she said quietly, “and 
that is that, situated as I am in the world, you will have 
to practically marry my mother with me; for I neither 
could or would ever think of deserting her in her old 
age.” 

“I have thought of that, Helena; and the matter shall 
be arranged entirely in accordance with your wishes. And 
now kindly say you accept me, and don’t keep me any 
longer upon my knees; for I shall never get up until you 
do.” 

“Well,” said Helena, with a smile, “I suppose that’s 
the only way out of a rather awkward dilemma, as we 
certainly cannot remain as we are for the rest of our lives ; 
but, remember, you must take my mother with me; for I 
shall never, never leave her.” 

“Yes, and if you happen to have a grandmother, I will 
marry her with the rest, for I am in a marrying mood 
to-day !” 

Saying which, the young man took Helena lovingly to 
his heart, and kissed her. And this is the faithful story of 
how Patrick Dunbar won his bride. 


11 


CHAPTER XII. 


The news of the engagement carried joy to the hearts 
of Mr. and Mrs. Moulton; but, quite naturally, was not 
so enthusiastically received by Mrs. Murphy. Mr. and 
Mrs. Moulton did their best to induce the old lady to look 
upon the announcement from the view-point of the good 
of her child, and so far succeeded as to extract from her 
a rather perfunctory consent ; but it was clear that 
her heart was not in it. It seems, however, to be one of 
the kindly offices of Nature to prepare the shoulders 
that are to receive the loads she intends to lay upon them, 
and also to properly apportion their weight. So, in due 
time, this difficulty was disposed of, and Dunbar was re- 
ceived into the Murphy household as an accepted suitor; 
and many a happy hour he spent in the old summer-house 
in the midst of the neglected garden. 

The greatest obstacle to his marrying at all, let alone 
marrying a stranger in a strange land, he was well aware 
would arise from the opposition of his mother and sisters. 
Nor was he disappointed of his expectation in this re- 
gard. In answer to his announcement of his approaching 
marriage, there came a very vigorous protest upon the part 
of his mother, and, as an echo of it, letters from both 
his sisters, begging him in rather vague and general terms 
not to throw himself away upon “those designing American 
women, who were doubtless only after his money.” 

Now, although under the terms of his father’s will, 
he was the heir and the head of the house, his mother and 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


163 

sisters had certain provisions made for their support, and 
other rights which he considered himself bound to respect. 
He therefore set himself to securing their approval of 
his marriage; fully intending, however, to marry whether 
or no. 

Summer passed, gave place to autumn, and autumn was 
about to yield to winter, before all these somewhat con- 
flicting forces were so accommodated as to admit of his 
solemnizing his marriage in the full light of an approving 
conscience. But, finally, as a result of his inflexible pur- 
pose and promise to Helena never to return to England 
without her, the ceremony was performed and Dunbar 
took his wife to his arms. Situated as they were, there 
could be no wedding trip. The wedding had taken place 
very quietly at the Murphys 5 home, and now the honey- 
moon was to be spent there. The old garden, by this time 
in its winter garb, looked more desolate and deserted than 
ever; but inside, the house, although poorly furnished and 
antiquated, was made as welcoming as possible for the 
young people; for, Dunbar, true to his promise again, re- 
spected his wife’s wishes in the matter of allowing her to 
remain with her mother. As nothing short of an earth- 
quake could have dislodged the old lady from her accus- 
tomed quarters, Dunbar resolved to patiently wait for the 
earthquake. 

It came in the spring in the shape of the poor old gentle- 
woman’s death; and, at last, having in every possible way 
acted the part of a man both of feeling and of honor in 
the fulfilment of his anti-nuptial promises, he was free 
to return to England with his wife. The two old servants 
and the dog were left to take care of the old home, and 
the young couple made arrangements for their departure. 

Before leaving New York Dunbar had become so familiar 
with the condition of his own affairs and so perfectly 
convinced of the loyalty of his agent, Mr. Moulton, that 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


164 

he returned to his native land with a light heart, happy 
in the possession of a lovely wife, and full of joyful an- 
ticipations of their wedded life amongst his former sur- 
roundings. His mother and sisters had not as yet agreed 
to cordially admit his wife into the family. Women have 
a way of wishing to look each other over before they do 
that ; but Dunbar relied a good deal upon the native charm 
and tact of his wife in finally overcoming these prejudices ; 
resolving, however, if they could not be overcome to set up 
a separate establishment of his own. 

So, one fine morning, with the Moultons and some other 
American friends to see them off, the young couple took 
shipping for England, where they arrived in sound health 
and spirits, and in due time. His family were in London 
and it was the height of the season. Dunbar’s carriage met 
the travelers at Euston Station and drove them to their 
home in Portland Place. The ladies of his family were 
spruced up to an alarming extent, as far as their habili- 
ments went; evidently intending to impress the new wife 
with the hopelessness of any competition on her part in 
this line of endeavor. But Dunbar had looked out for this. 
Having had plenty of time in which to do it comfortably 
in Hew York, he had had his wife fitted up under the 
guidance of a modiste who had a Paris connection, so fully 
and so lavishly as to put his mother and sisters out of 
the running altogether. Their raiment looked English and 
dowdy enough in comparison with the Eranco-American 
outfit of the young wife. 

The English ladies, having had decidedly the worst of 
it in the first encounter, retired, however, in tolerably 
good order to make plans for the conduct of their future 
campaign; for, English-like, they were not to be easily 
beaten. Making due allowance for the strangeness of her 
new surroundings, Helena acted with charming tact; but 
naturally, having been pretty well apprised of the diffi- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


165 

culties she was likely to meet on the road to a final agree- 
ment with her new relatives, she gave such unmistakable 
evidences of what might be called “the American spirit,” 
that the English contingent were fully warned that the 
least spark might lead to a disastrous explosion; although 
she, Helena, would never be the first to strike it. 

And now, in honor of the young American wife, all sorts 
of festivities were set on foot; that is, as far as was con- 
sistent with Helena’s proper respect for her mother’s 
memory. Naturally enough, the glare of the London season 
to a woman accustomed to the dull surroundings of her 
former home was rather dazzling at first. It could hardly 
have been otherwise; and at times she was heartily sick 
of it all. But she loved her husband, and bravely set 
herself to the task of adapting her life to his. She went 
much farther in this direction than many women would 
have done; for Helena had a will of her own. She had 
resolved, however, that if trouble came it should never 
be laid at her door; and to this end she gave way to 
many an exaction on the part of her husband’s mother and 
sisters. 

Mrs. Dunbar was decidedly a difficult person to get 
on with. She had seen enough of both poverty and riches 
to induce her to leave the one and to cling to the other 
with all the fervor of an unromantic woman pretty well 
on in years. After a life of more or less self-denial, to find 
herself unexpectedly not only rich, but very rich, had the 
effect of making her extremely conservative; not to say 
selfish. “The idea of your bringing a penniless woman 
into the family, Padsey,” she said to her son one day, when 
alone, “when with our fortune and position you could 
easily have married an heiress. I really think it was 
most inconsiderate of you. Both of your sisters will be 
marrying soon, in the natural course of events, and will 
have to be portioned off. How much better it would have 


1 66 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


been for them, and for all of us if you had waited until 
you could have married a fortune!” 

“But I have married a fortune,” Dunbar replied. 
Helena is a woman far above rubies to me ; besides, doesn’t 
it appear to you rather small to underrate a woman who 
is willing to do so much for a principle as she and her poor 
mother were?” 

“Oh bother your sentimentality, Padsey,” returned the 
mother, sharply, “those women only did what it was their 
duty to do; and what would have been very dishonest in 
them not to do. So why make such a fuss about a simple 
matter of honesty. Most people are honest ; or, at least I 
hope they are. They certainly ought to be; and with no 
expectation of reward, either.” 

“I doubt whether you could point out many women 
who would have acted as Helena and her mother did, 
and you must excuse me, mother, if I request you not to 
speak slightingly of what / consider the noble act of a pair 
of noble women; for I shall always resent it, when you 
do.” 

“There you go stirring up family quarrels again, Padsey. 
Perhaps you don’t consider your mother and your sisters 
noble women? If you don’t, don’t hesitate to say so for a 
moment. We may as well know it now as at any other 
time.” 

“i certainly consider it ignoble conduct on your part to 
speak ill of my wife, mother; and I warn you distinctly 
that if it goes on you may make it necessary for me to 
set up an independent home; which, for many reasons, I 
should be sorry to do.” 

This implied threat had the desired effect for some time ; 
but then it was forgotten, and disagreeable things began 
to be said and done again. The young ladies, Alice and 
Mary, were well intentioned girls; honest and affectionate 
enough, but devoted to their mother, and easily led by 


PATRICK DURBAR 


167 

her prejudices. Matters had of late almost reached a 
climax on several occasions, when the ending of the season 
and the family’s going to the country served as a divertise- 
ment; and the peace had so far remained unbroken. The 
more free and unrestrained life of the country made 
matters go smoothly for a while longer; and Dunbar 
was doing his best to settle down into the belief that all 
would eventually turn out for the best in his family life, 
when an incident occurred which for a time so completely 
dominated all other affairs as to throw the bickerings of 
his women-folk into the shade. The incident was this: 
Calling at his Bankers one day, the manager said to him 
half playfully, “Dunbar, you ought to be more careful in 
accepting your bills; two or three times lately we have 
found your acceptances undated, and have had to send them 
back to the drawer, not wishing to trouble you in the 
matter ; but, although we understand you are not a business 
man, for your own protection you should avoid such omis- 
sions, as some day it might easily lead to trouble.” 

Dunbar knew quite enough of London Bankers to recog- 
nize the pleasure they took in calling their clients to order. 
Still, although Brown’s, the manager’s, manner was only 
half serious, the subject matter was serious enough. Dun- 
bar had accepted no bills whatever; and so was naturally 
enough perfectly innocent of any errors or omissions in 
the matter of their drawing. Ever since his experience 
with Dobson, however, he had been more or less prepared 
for pitfalls. Here was a very serious one, and it brought 
him up all standing. He did not lose his presence of 
mind, but asked quietly, “How many of my bills do you 
hold, Brown?” 

“Oh, a lot. I could give you a list of them I suppose; 
but it would take some time to make it up. You see, 
you’ve been going it pretty well in accepting lately. I 
hope you are not going to make a business of it, Dunbar, 


i68 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


for, pleased as we are to have your name on almost any 
kind of paper in our Bank, there is a limit, you know; 
and, of course, you also know, such things get talked of 
amongst us Bankers, and it will do you no good in the 
end. You see, my boy, we really don’t quite understand why 
you should need to raise money through bills at all; rich 
man as we know you to be, and then, I’m sorry to say, you 
don’t seem to confine your business to your own Bank, as 
we would wish you to do; but several Banks have your 
acceptances.” 

This was going a little too far for good nature, and 
Dunbar was beginning to get not only alarmed but angry, 
“Stop there, Brown, if you please,” he said sternly, “have 
I ever in my relations with your Bank asked you for a 
favor of any kind?” 

“Um, well, now you ask the question, I really can’t say 
you have, Dunbar; but, of course you understand we 
discount your bills entirely on the strength of your name. 
The drawers are no good, as you well know.” 

This remark rather put Dunbar in an unfortunate posi- 
tion. His object was, without at present exciting alarm, 
to ascertain the extent of the new trouble he saw he was 
called upon to face. To ask Brown who the drawers of 
the bills were would have been tantamount to accusing 
himself of a much greater breach of business decorum 
than his manager had so far accused him of. He resolved 
to pursue his investigations by another avenue of approach : 
“The bills have always been promptly met, haven’t they?” 
he asked. 

“Oh, yes, naturally ; or we never should have allowed the 
amount to creep up to the figure it has.” 

Here Dunbar was baffled again. Who had paid these 
bills? He certainly had not; and yet to state this fact 
would be the spark which would send the whole situation 
sky-high. He paused a moment, thinking rapidly, and 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


169 

catching at all the straws of hope in what was developing 
into an extremely serious situation. Dunbar had heard 
tales of London finance: How forged bills were a matter 
of almost daily occurrence, many of which were found out 
and privately settled, many of which were never found 
out. The guilty parties were the best payers in the world. 
Some London Bankers went as far as to say they preferred 
forged bills to any others; for the reason that they were 
the most promptly met. Still, here was a matter which 
must be promptly looked into. Sooner or later the man 
who was forging his name might get into difficulties so 
complicated as not to admit of his extracting himself 
from them, and then , now that he had been warned, he 
could be justly censured for not having spoken. Something 
whispered in his ear of his inner understanding one, 
and only one name, as the worker of this last wrong upon 
him. That name was Gow. To mention it now, however, 
to the manager of the Bank to whom Gow had introduced 
him, and where he himself kept his account, would be 
doing the young man an irretrievable injury, should his 
secret monitor happen to prove himself in the wrong. All 
things considered, it appeared best for him to content 
himself with the information he had been able to extract 
so far, without an apparent effort on his part, and to rely 
upon other sources of information for further light upon 
the situation. So, without much further comment, he 
took his departure. 

Naturally enough in this dilemma, Dunbar’s mind re- 
verted to Catherine Marley. What had become of that 
strange woman? So many changes in his own life had 
taken place since he had last seen her, that he had had no 
time nor inclination to think of any possible changes in 
hers; that is, until now that he needed her services. She 
might have starved, or have made away with herself for all 
he knew. Such occurrences were common enough in Lon- 


170 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


don. One unfortunate woman more or less makes very 
little difference where there are so many, so very many to 
recruit from. He now felt actually ashamed of himself 
for having given so little concern to the life and welfare 
of anyone, much more a helpless woman, who had gone 
so far out of her way to help him in his adversity. He 
now tried to recall her last address, but it had entirely 
faded from his memory. Then again, it occurred to him 
that his own attitude towards this woman had wholly 
changed since their last meeting. He was a married man 
now, and any little apparent indiscretions which might or 
might not have been overlooked by his mother and sisters, 
would certainly not be overlooked by his wife. It be- 
hooved him to avoid the slightest appearance of evil on 
Helena’s account; if for no other reason. 

His family were at present in the country, and he had 
come up to town partly upon business, and partly to get 
away for a period from the bickerings of his household, 
which by this time had become intolerable. Upon these 
visits to town, he slept at his own house in Portland Place, 
but dined wherever appetite or circumstance suggested. 
It occurred to him that by some very remote chance he 
might run against a stray item of information, or possibly 
meet either Gow or some of his friends at the eating house 
near Leicester Square, which had been the scene of his last 
adventure of a similar nature. As the interview with the 
Bank manager had taken place early in the afternoon, 
there would be considerable intervening time between that 
hour and the one at which he was likely to obtain any 
important results at the restaurant; and this time he 
spent at his club, leaving it in time to secure a seat in a 
favorable position to see and hear without being seen, 
before the arrival of any of the persons he hoped to fall 
in with. Upon this occasion, he had secured a seat in 
the booth adjacent to the one usually occupied by Gow 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


171 

or his friends, from which he was enabled to watch the 
door of the eating house. He now ordered his dinner, 
and had almost finished it, although he had proceeded 
with the greatest deliberation, before anything in the 
remotest manner bearing upon the investigation he was 
interested in took place. Just as he was about to call the 
waiter to ask for his bill, a man hastily entered the place, 
advanced to nearly where he was sitting, and then fur- 
tively looking not into Dunbar’s booth, but into a mirror 
directly opposite to it, was evidently disconcerted by what 
he saw; for he started, as if seeing some reflection in the 
glass, and then, without turning his face so that Dunbar 
could get a good look at it, proceeded to retrace his steps 
towards the door, through which he passed out into the 
street. Under different conditions there would have been 
nothing at all extraordinary in this ; but Dunbar was look- 
ing for clues and unlikely occurrences, and the man’s whole 
manner suggested something suspicious. Whoever he was, 
he was evidently anxious to remain unrecognized, and this 
very fact set our hero to thinking. He now as quickly as 
possible paid his bill, and rising from his seat sauntered 
towards the door, through which, as the season was summer 
and the door open, he could see what was going on in the 
street. 

As he stood, partly concealed by the shadow of the door- 
wtay, this is what he saw : The man now evidently consider- 
ing himself for the moment secure from observation, ap- 
peared to be waiting for the arrival of someone he was 
expecting, but whom he had failed to find inside the 
restaurant. Upon a closer examination of his features, 
it now occurred to Dunbar that there was something fa- 
miliar about them, but as yet he could not fully identify 
them. Suddenly the man, yielding to a sudden impulse, 
removed a pair of spectacles from his eyes, as if they 
annoyed him, or he was unused to them, at the same time 


172 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


uttering an impatient exclamation, as if disgusted at being 
kept waiting by his friend. In an instant Dunbar had 
recognized his former friend Gow, grown a little older 
than when he had last seen him, a good deal seedier, and 
protected by a slight disguise, very much like the one he 
himself had assumed on the occasion of his own last visit 
to the place. 

Gow had undoubtedly seen Dunbar’s reflection in the 
mirror, and, wishing to avoid him, had suddenly left his 
vicinity. What would be his next move ? This question was 
answered by the sudden appearance of a young gentleman 
in a cab, which rapidly drove up to the door of the restau- 
rant. It was lord Vennor. He was in the act of getting 
out of his cab when Gow ran up, whispered something 
hurriedly in his ear and himself jumped into the cab, at 
the same time calling out to the cabman the place to which 
he was to drive. The driver evidently failed to hear him, 
however, and asked him to repeat his instructions; which 
Gow did in a louder and very impatient tone of voice; 
“Calthorpe Street, Gray’s Inn Road, you fool.” 

“Calthorpe Street,” repeated the man, “right, sir.” 

Just as he said this, Dunbar saw one of the street women 
who frequent Leicester Square in such numbers draw near 
enough the cabman to easily overhear what he said, and 
then carelessly join a group of women with which she 
became so completely merged as to escape identification, 
except as the result of a careful inspection. Dunbar, hav- 
ing more than half expected to run against Catherine 
Marley before his evening adventure was over, had caught 
just a long enough glimpse of the woman to satisfy him 
that it was she. Not caring, however, to press his in- 
vestigation in this quarter just now, he hastily called a 
cab standing nearby, and pointing to the one in which 
lord Yennor and Gow were driving, directed his driver to 
follow them as well as he could. In a moment he was 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


173 


bowling along through the labyrinth of squalid streets, 
which at that time lay between that part of the town and 
Oxford Street, but which have in many instances been 
done away with by the cutting through of Shaftesbury 
Avenue. Upon reaching Gray’s Inn Road from Oxford 
Street, the cab Dunbar was following ascended it, until 
Holborn Town Hall was passed on the right, and then it 
showed signs of stopping. Dunbar’s driver was evidently 
up to his work, for he also slowed up in a manner to pre- 
vent a too noticeable diminution of the distance between 
the two vehicles. Suddenly, seeing the other cab stop, 
instead of stopping himself, he whipped up his horse and 
passed it, evidently desiring to avoid appearing interested 
in his neighbor’s affairs. 

Looking through the little back window of his cab, 
Dunbar now saw the two men get out of their cab, pay and 
dismiss the driver, and then arm in arm proceed up 
Gray’s Inn Road until they reached a short narrow street 
on the right; down which they turned. Dunbar waited 
until they had gone far enough to make it prudent to 
do so, and then alighted from his cab, followed them until 
he saw them standing upon the porch of a small house 
on the lower side of the street. Then he saw Gow put 
his hand in his pocket for his slip key, unlock the door; 
and both pass inside. In another moment he saw the room 
on the first floor suddenly illumined; from which it was 
safe to infer that he had now successfully run his slippery 
friend to earth; and without arousing his suspicions. He 
then crossed the street from where he had been standing, 
carefully took the number of the house, together with a 
good enough look at it to absolutely secure a future recog- 
nition of it, in case of need; and then returning to his 
cab, entered it and requested the driver to take him home. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


“How the devil did you ever fetch up in this dog-kennel 
part of the town, Gow?” asked Vennor, taking a seat and 
lighting a cigar. 

“Well, its rather a long story, but it all boils itself down 
into a very few words,” answered Gow, rather surlily. 
“First, want of money, second, want of a shady retreat 
from which I can easily get away into a still more shady 
one in case of need. You see, Calthorpe Street is a sort 
of middle ground between the east and west ends of Lon- 
don. It’s a sort of continuation of Guilford Street, which 
as you know runs from Russell Square to Gray's Inn 
Road. At its eastern end is the Cold-bath-fields Prison. 
My back windows look over the walls and into the prison 
yard. Not a very stimulating prospect, one would say; 
but it has its interest, for all that. I see every day some 
hundreds of poor fellows taking their exercise in their grey 
suits, many of whom are no more guilty of the offences of 
which they are charged than you and I are. It is an inter- 
esting sight to watch the poor devils, and to wonder what 
they are thinking about.” 

“Um,” said Vennor, thoughtfully, “to my way of think- 
ing, I could find many a more agreeable occupation than 
that; but then there's no accounting for tastes, is there?” 

“On the other side of Cold-bath-fields, ” Gow went on, 
ftardly heeding the interruption, “lies the great unknown 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


*7 5 


country of the east side of London. If I am driven out 
of my present habitation, I can easily shift my quarters 
to the other side; that is,” he said under his breath, 
"unless I should happen to fall within the walls of the 
prison, in my flight over them.” 

"It seems to me you’ve changed your appearance a good 
deal since I saw you, Gow;” said Vennor, looking at him 
scrutinizingly, "what have you been doing, growing a 
moustache ?” 

"Yes,” said Gow, laughing as he removed a false mous- 
tache from his face, "yes, I’ve grown a temporary mous- 
tache, which I wear upon certain occasions. Tonight, for 
instance, it saved my being recognized by a man I partic- 
ularly don’t care to meet just now; or I think it did.” 

"I suppose I know whom you mean, so you needn’t men- 
tion any names. Well, what did you send for me for? 
What can I do for you?” 

"Vennor, I’m afraid we’ve come to the end of our 
tether; that is, unless you can find some new discounting 
facilities. We’ve used up all the old ones, I’m satisfied of 
that r 

"No more renewals?” 

"No, I’m afraid not. You see, we’ve renewed a good 
deal already, and the Bankers are beginning to ask rather 
awkward questions as to why a man as rich as our acceptor 
is known to be should have any bills on the market at all, 
let alone renewing them.” 

"Yes, I see ; and there’s something in it, too.” 

"Now what we want is some new field altogether; and, 
I am sorry to say, unless we find it pretty soon, there will 
be trouble.” 

"Ah?” said Vennor, carelessly, "trouble for whom?” 

"Trouble for both you and me, my lord,” said Gow, 
savagely. "It’s all very well, your allowing me to shoulder 
the whole responsibility of this affair ; but I’ve stood it just 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


176 

about as long as I intend to; and, if there’s trouble, you’ll 
take your share of it, my lord; and don’t you think you 

won’t.” 

“See here, Gow, if that is all you have to say to me, 
I shall take my hat and leave at once. At your request, 
I have drawn certain bills upon a certain party, whose 
name you said you could secure as acceptor. In some cases 
I have had these bills discounted at my Bankers, and I 
have strictly adhered to our agreement as to the division of 
the spoils. As the bills have matured they have either 
been promptly paid, or they have been renewed; and 
that’s all I either know or intend to know about the 
matter.” 

At this, Vennor excitedly rose to his feet, took his hat 
and walking stick, and turned as if intending to leave the 
room. But Gow was too quick for him. Evidently sus- 
pecting the move, he anticipated it by suddenly rushing 
to the door, locking it and placing the key in his pocket; 
then he returned to his chair, motioning Vennor to resume 
the one he had left. “It’s no good, my lord,” Gow said, 
sullenly, “you are not to leave me in this mess alone, to 
work out of it the best I can. If we fall, we fall together. 
If we pull out, we pull out together. You have had your 
fair share of the spoils, and you’ll stay in the game until 
it’s finished.” 

Vennor was evidently cowed by the determined humor 
of his friend, and taking his seat, said in rather a concilia- 
tory manner than otherwise: “Gow, for God’s sake, don’t 
make a scene about a little matter like this. I’ll do any- 
thing in reason I can to help you, as you well know. But 
you also know perfectly well that I absolutely refused to 
have anything to do with your, ahem, scheme, when you 
first launched it. Now is this true or is it not?” 

“In one sense it is, and in another it is not. Not wish- 
ing to get mixed up in a disagreeable matter, you pretended 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


1 77 


to know nothing about it. That you did know , however, 
can be easily proved. For just one bit of evidence, and 
there are plenty of others, you knew as well as I did, be- 
cause I took particular pains to tell you, that the man 
whose acceptance you were discounting had been for nearly 
a year some three thousand miles away from London, where 
these bills were accepted. A man can hardly be in New 
York and London at one and the same time for the purpose 
of bill discounting. In a word, you have been accessory in 
a neat little forgery; and you can struggle and wriggle 
as you will, and you can neither struggle nor wriggle out of 
it.” 

“For God’s sake, Gow, don’t use such language. We may 
be overheard.” 

“No fear of that, my lord; but, supposing we were, 
I don’t much care. You see, I’m well nigh desperate. 
You don’t know what I’ve been through in the last year. 
It’s no small matter to keep a hundred thousand pounds 
worth of bills in the air under the most favorable condi- 
tions; but to keep them going when the slightest accident 
or delay of any kind meant two years penal servitude, 
is as near hell as I ever care to get.” 

“Yes, I can understand that; but it was your own plan, 
and not mine; for all that. I neither originated nor ap- 
proved of it, as you well know.” 

“Yes,” growled Gow; “but you did much more than 
either originate or approve of it; you profited by it. To 
say you were ignorant of it is absurb; and you know it 
is.” 

“Well, what’s to be done? we shall never get out of 
this trouble by sitting here and abusing each other, shall 
we ?” 

“Listen, Vennor. Brown, the manager of my Bank, 
evidently suspects something. I know it from many little 
indications, or I think I know it, which comes to much 


12 


178 


PATRICK DURBAR 


the same thing. At any rate, another renewal at his Bank 
would not only be impossible, but to ask for it, under the 
circumstances would be suicidal. Brown would imme- 
diately send for our friend who has lately returned from 
America, and then the whole matter would be blown upon in 
the twinkling of an eye. Those bills, some ten thousand 
pounds of them, come due in a few days, and they must be 
met at any cost ; or you and I will be within the walls I can 
see from my back windows, or we shall have fled the 
country, within a week’s time.” 

Yennor now appeared thoroughly frightened, and both 
the young men sat wrapped in very serious thought. 

“Have you any reason to suspect that Dun — I mean 
our friend suspects the little liberty that has been taken 
with his name during his absence abroad?” asked Ven- 
nor. 

“Dunbar was at the restaurant this evening for no 
good purpose, I can assure you. He is by no means 
an habitu6 of the place. He was sent there to spy upon me 
and you; and I well know who sent him.” 

“Who?” 

“It’s not necessary to say just now; but whoever it was 
bodes no good for either of us. For all I know, the whole 
matter may be in the warrant department of Scotland 
Yard by this time. I have come to the absolute end of 
my rope, I tell you. Do you for a moment suppose I should 
be living in diggings like these at sixteen shillings a week, 
if I had money? I haven’t a soverign to my name, I 
tell you, except the few that I shall trouble you to give 
me now. So just turn out your pockets, please, and be 
quick about it, too.” 

“But, God, old man, this is highway robbery. You can’t 
mean what you say.” 

“It may be murder, before I get through with you, 
Yennor ; so do as I say, or, by God, I’ll make you.” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


179 

Yennor, at this pressing invitation took out his purse 
from his breast pocket, and opening it was about to very 
grudgingly extract the smallest possible sum from it 
required to satisfy the demands of his friend. Gow waited 
impatiently a moment, and then with a sudden move- 
ment snatched the wallet from YennoFs hands, saying as 
he did so, “Fll save you the trouble of counting these 
notes, my lord, by taking the lot. You can easily re- 
place them, you know; while it is a matter of life and death 
to me.” 

Saying which Gow coolly put the wallet in his own 
pocket, as a hungry bull-dog would hide a bone he had 
just snatched from a weaker brother bull-dog. Yennor 
pocketed the loss and the insult with the air of a man 
who suddenly finds himself in the presence of a maniac, 
and wishes to humor him just long enough to effect his 
escape. 

“And now, Yennor,” said Gow, settling back in his chair, 
“you recognize the urgency of this affair, and Fd like to 
hear any suggestion you may have as to a way out of it.” 

“How would it answer to go to Dunbar, lay the whole 
matter before him, put yourself in his hands, so to speak, 
and beg for mercy. That is, beg him to either really accept 
some bills for you, or to lend you sufficient money to 
protect the ones already out? From what you have told 
me of him, he seems a good hearted sort of fellow; and 
then he would hardly like to be mixed up in such a scandal 
as the discovery of this little matter of yours would — ” 

“Ours, if you please.” 

“Well, then ours , would involve.” 

“Fve thought of all that; but the devil is he has been 
through a previous experience somewhat similar to this in 
which he lost a large sum of money ; and when he played 
the lenient part you suggest. I fear he would hardly do 
it again.” 


i8o 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


“Would it do any harm to try?” 

“Why, yes. In order to ask him for the leniency I should 
have to disclose to him the fact of my having placed myself 
in a position to need it. That’s as plain as the nose on 
your face.” 

“Yes, I see.” 

Then a long silence ensued, in which both men were evi- 
dently cogitating the best way out of their difficulties. 
Finally Gow, looked surreptitiously at his companion, 
as if endeavoring to fathom the turn his thoughts were 
taking, said; “If Dunbar could only be induced to return 
to America and to remain there another year or two, or 
better yet, never to return; it would be the best way out 
of this devilish affair.” 

Yennor, as upon a previous occasion, when his friend 
had begun to tread dangerous ground, gave no evidence 
of understanding. Gow waited a moment, and then pushed 
his line of circumvallation a little nearer. “You see, if 
Dunbar, by any unforseen chance, should take sick and 
die, the bills would be duly paid out of his estate and no 
one would be the wiser.” 

“Yes,” replied Yennor, still declining to perceive the 
drift of his friend’s tactics, “yes, but then you know 
people never die when you want them to, and always die 
when you don't want them to.” 

“If he could disappear,” went on Gow, “say, if he could 
be made to disappear into an insane asylum, or upon a 
very long voyage, it would answer almost as well as if 
he were to suddenly die. The trouble is, all this takes 
time ; and we have no time to spare.” 

Vennor here gave a startled look, as if he had for 
the first time begun to see what Gow was driving at. The 
expression “suddenly die” had evidently opened up a new 
vista of crime for which he was wholly unprepared ; logical 
as it seemed to appear to the man who was hatching one 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


1 8 1 


diabolical plot to help him out of another. Careless and 
weak as Yennor was, he was not yet an assassin; nor, 
when it came to the supreme test, was he a coward. He 
had allowed himself to be robbed of his purse, simply be- 
cause it would have cost him more in the way of resistance 
than the loss of the money would amount to ; but here was 
a different condition of affairs altogether; and it aroused 
all the latent manhood in him. “Gow,” he said, rising to 
his feet, “you are a damned villain; and you and I are 
done with each other for ever and ever. I admit my par- 
ticipation in your crimes up to date, and I will, as you 
say, bear my part of the responsibility in them. I mean 
what I say; and if Dunbar were standing before me now 
I should make a clean breast of the matter, as I have 
just advised you to do. I will go to him, explain matters, 
and urge upon him for his own sake and for ours to co- 
operate with us in settling this matter as speedily and as 
quietly as we can. That is, I will do this if you wish me 
to, rather than do it yourself. And now,” he said, sternly, 
“having made this offer, and having accepted my share of 
the responsibility in this wretched affair, say what you 
have to say, and say it quickly; for as soon as you have 
said it, I propose to leave this room, and to leave you ; 
for I shall have no further part or parcel with you in 
your hellish schemes. You are a bad man. So am I : but 
I am not as bad as you, and I pray God I never shall be. 
Now, say your say; for I am suffocating in breathing the 
same atmosphere you pollute with your breath.” 

“Your lordship mistakes my position altogether. I 
had no intention of doing anything further than state a 
supposititious case. Indeed, you do me a great wrong, my 
lord,” said Gow, in a whining, frightened voice.” 

“Is that all you have to say?” 

“Yes, my lord, except — ” 

“Except what?” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


1 82 

“Except that, of course you won’t say anything to any- 
one about this matter ; that is, until I ask you to.” 

“Yes, I agree to that. I certainly am not anxious to 
appear in a case of this kind, and only take the stand I 
have in answer to your charge that I was shirking my 
share of the risk. And now, sir, instantly open that door, 
and let me pass unmolested; or, by God, you’ll commit 
murder now and here. Unlock that door, I say.” 

At this, Yennor threw off his coat, and made other un- 
mistakable signs of an immediate opening of hostilities, 
which Gow instantly recognized by getting up and doing 
as Yennor had commanded him to do. He unlocked the door 
with the air of a man who had met with an unexpected but 
temporary defeat. Yennor coolly put on his coat, picked 
up his belongings, and before leaving the room, turning 
and looking Gow squarely in the face, said coldly: “You 
understand, sir, that all relations between us are absolutely 
at an end. I don’t wish you to recognize me on the street, 
nor shall I recognize you. If, in connection with our 
previous affairs you ever wish to communicate with me, 
you have the address of my solicitors and your message 
can come through them. I shall not leave town, nor in 
any manner seek to escape the full consequences of our 
misdoing; but, make no mistake about it, you and I will 
each make his own fight as he sees fit; and not together.” 

Saying which he walked slowly and coolly out of the 
room, leaving Gow sorely discomfited. 

“Ah,” said Gow, to himself, as he heard the street door 
slam, “there goes my last chance. I’m afraid I did not 
play my hand for all it was worth tonight by any means; 
but there was a look in that man’s face I didn’t like at the 
finish. He would certainly have killed me, or I should have 
killed him, if we had had a fight. Perhaps it’s as well 
as it is; but what’s to be done now? I’m in no position 
to defend myself against such an array of troubles as I 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


I8 3 

shall have on my hands in a few days now. The forgery 
will certainly be discovered by Brown as soon as the bills 
come back unpaid. He will immediately notify Dunbar 
and then all the fat will be in the fire! As to getting 
rid of Dunbar, it would be a ticklish job at best; and, 
situated as I am now with no money and with no one to 
help me, it would be much more dangerous to tackle it than 
to allow matters to take their course. Let’s see how much 
money I have?” 

Here he opened Vennor’s wallet and counted out some 
bank notes and some gold, which amounted in the aggre- 
gate to between forty and fifty pounds. “There,” he 
grumbled, “not much of a capital to start a new business 
upon; but it might be worse.” 

He now calmly went to a closet and taking out a small 
hand bag packed a few toilette requisites in it. Then he 
changed his clothing for a rough suit, a slouch hat, and 
put on his false moustache. Then he looked at his watch. 
It was about ten o’clock. “Now, to get down stairs and 
out on the street without my landlady pouncing upon me 
for her devilish arrears of rent.” 

Taking a stout stick in his hand, pulling his coat collar 
up over his ears, and concealing his bag under his coat, 
Gow now quietly descended the stairs, opened the front 
door, and silently closed it as he passed into the street. 
Once upon the sidewalk, he turned to the right and walked 
in the direction of Cold-bath-fields Prison at a lively 
pace. He had only proceeded a few yards in the direction 
he had chosen, when a woman’s figure glided noiselessly 
from behind the shadow of the porch of a neighboring 
house, and followed him. Gow now had reached the end 
of Calthorpe Street, and turned to the right again into 
the squalid street which borders the prison on its western 
side. This led him through an Italian quarter of the 
town, the part of London where the organ-grinders and 


PATRICK DUKBAR 


184 

Italian peddlers live ; a dangerous place to pass through at 
night. Soon, however, he crossed Farringdon Road, and 
continued on into the real east end of London, where 
he was speedily lost; as he wished and intended to be. 

The next day, Dunbar received a telegram signed C. 
Marley, requesting him to meet her at the restaurant in 
Leicester Square at eight o’clock that evening. Having 
partly expected it, he had already made up his mind to 
keep the rendezvous. Accordingly, as the hour of the 
meeting arrived, Dunbar found himself sitting face to 
face with the mysterious woman in one of the alcoves of 
the Italian eating house aforesaid. The woman had changed 
little since he had last seen her; but there was a look 
of weariness and hope long deferred in her eyes which 
could not fail to excite Dunbar’s profoundest sympathy. 
In reply to a few kindly words, however, asking after her 
welfare, she gave a very short answer, although by no means 
a discourteous one, in which she evidently wished to convey 
the impression that she was not there to speak of her own 
affairs, but rather of his. “There is something going to 
happen,” she began, as soon as the dinner had been ordered, 
and the waiter dismissed, “and I considered it best to warn 
you of it. I saw you last evening, and saw you follow a 
friend of yours. Perhaps you already know or suspect 
more than I can tell you. If so, I shall have my trouble 
for my pains, I suppose; but I could not rest until I had 
seen you.” 

“And I was going to look you up, although I confess I 
had lost your address,” answered Dunbar. “You were 
quite right in wishing to warn me, and I thank you for 
it” - 

The woman was evidently pleased that Dunbar appre- 
ciated her intention; but said nothing. She was waiting 
for him to go on. There was a struggle going on in his 
mind as to whether or no to entrust this woman with the 
full import of his suspicions; but he finally resolved to do 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


185 

so, and said : “I fully agree with you in thinking something 
is going to happen. My only fear is that it has already 
happened, and that we are too late to prevent it.” 

The woman gave him an inquiring look, but asked no 
question. 

“Should you think it possible for the friend you just 
mentioned to commit a serious crime, Mrs. Mar ley ?” Dun- 
bar asked. 

She gave him a frightened look, and then peered about 
the room to see if she was likely to be overheard, and said 
in a low voice, “That man, under pressure, would commit 
any crime however great. There is absolutely no crime 
he would not commit. I have lost sight of him for some 
months lately. He has changed his quarters, and has 
evidently been keeping out of the way. Last night I saw 
you , before I saw him, and seeing you suggested my look- 
ing for him. I followed him to his lodgings in Calthorpe 
Street, where he had a long interview with his friend, 
lord Vennor. Shortly after the latter had left the house, 
our friend left it too, and is now hiding in one of the 
worst streets in the east end. I followed him until after 
midnight, and saw him settled in his new quarters before 
I left him.” 

“And you did this without his seeing you?” 

“Oh, yes, there was no difficulty in that to one who 
knows London, as, unfortunately, I know it.” 

“And you could find him again, you think?” 

“I think so, yes. Of course, he may move; but, from the 
way he acted I think he feels safe in his present hiding 
place, and does not intend, for the present at least, to leave 
London.” 

“Would you consent to assist in finding him if it were 
necessary ?” 

“That depends. I should not give him up to the police, 
if that is what you mean.” 


PATRICK DURBAR 


1 86 

“That is exactly what I mean. I believe the man has 
forged my name at my Bankers for a large amount.” 

“I have not the slightest doubt of it,” answered the 
woman, calmly, “that’s rather in his line. He’s always 
dabbling in bills.” 

“Well, isn’t that a rather serious matter from your point 
of view?” 

“Oh, yes; but men do a good many serious and cruel 
things when they are desperate.” 

“And you wouldn’t assist in bringing him to justice for 
such a crime?” 

“No, I would not. I do not belong to the police force. 
Neither am I a judge. It is nothing to me, except as far as 
you are concerned. I should like to help you if I could ; but 
I would only endeavor to protect even you from a possible 
danger. I certainly would not assist you in carrying out a 
revenge.” 

“And I honor you, my friend, for taking the stand you 
do ; for it is the one I myself take ; but, for all that, some- 
thing must be done. Otherwise, I myself may be taken 
for an accomplice of this man.” 

He then went on and explained the position of affairs 
to her, and told her of his interview with his Bank man- 
ager. She listened quietly until he had come to the end 
of what he had to say, and then she asked: “How large 
an amount do these bills represent, and how much longer 
could this matter be kept quiet?” 

“I can answer neither of those questions,” said Dunbar, 
“for the reason that I myself could not ask them of my 
Bank manager for fear of betraying an ignorance of my 
own affairs, which would have had the effect of bringing 
the affair to a very sudden climax.” 

The interview was now brought to a close, and Dunbar 
parted with his strange friend at the door of the restaurant. 
As he wended his way towards his home it occurred to him 
that Catherine Marley’s unwillingness to assist in the 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


187 

possible apprehension of Gow was due to some personal 
interest she took in the man, rather than to any adhesion 
to the principle she advocated. But this was a matter of 
conjecture only. Beyond the discovery of the fact that 
she was in possession of the secret of Gow’s hiding place, 
the interview had been unproductive of results; and Dun- 
bar rather questioned in his own mind whether this secret 
had not been purchased at the price of confidences on his 
part which might better have been withheld. However, 
it was too late to withdraw them now; so he decided to 
quietly await results for a few days before taking any 
farther action in the matter. 

In the course of a week or two he received a formal 
notice of protest upon a bill of two thousand pounds which 
was lying unpaid at his own Bankers. The notice was 
accompanied by a rather curt and censorious note from the 
manager expressing surprise at the occurrence and re- 
questing Dunbar’s immediate attention to the matter. 
Dunbar’s answer was rather a careless letter asking Brown 
whether his credit was not good for a small matter of 
two thousand pounds, requesting him to pay the bill out 
of his current balance, and to send it to him. This was 
done; and now Dunbar had in his possession the absolute 
evidence that some one had forged his name. As this par- 
ticular bill was drawn by Gow, it was safe enough to 
assume that that gentleman was the forger; although, of 
course, it was not legal evidence. 

In a few days more came another notice of protest ; this 
time accompanied by a request that he should call at 
the Bank at his earliest convenience. As he at the time 
had a sufficiently large balance to cover a good many more 
possible demands upon it of this nature, he repeated his 
former request to pay the bill out of his balance, and to 
send it to him. He would call, he said, when next in 
town. In fact, Dunbar, having made up his mind that 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


1 88 

he, for the present at least, should pay these forged bills 
as they came due, partly from an abhorrence of resorting to 
a criminal remedy against a former friend, and partly 
because he dreaded a scandal of such a nature on his own 
account, resolved to refrain from doing anything to excite 
the suspicions of his Bankers. He argued that as long as 
the bills were paid no one could be injured but himself. 
His Bankers certainly could have no cause of complaint, 
except the temporary loss of confidence in an old client 
which such an occurrence as allowing a bill to go to protest 
would naturally engender; and this, again, was his loss 
rather than theirs. So he allowed the matter to go on 
until some ten thousand pounds worth of these irregular 
bills were in his hands, and then he considered it time 
to act. Before calling upon his Bankers, however, he con- 
cluded to ascertain whether or no Catherine Marley had 
any tidings of his former friend Gow to communicate. 
He wrote to the address she had given him and almost 
by return post had a reply stating that the gentleman in 
question had not changed his address and showed no im- 
mediate indication of intending to do so. As the post- 
script of a lady’s letter, not even excepting a woman of 
the phlegmatic type Mrs. Marley had so far shown herself 
to be, generally contains the entire kernel of what she 
desires to say, this letter ended with a postscript in which 
the writer begged Dunbar to take no steps whatever in 
the direction of exposing this latest imposition upon him 
until she had the opportunity of seeing him. “I know this 
is asking a good deal of a man in your position,” she 
went on, “but, having taken the magnanimous stand you 
have, continue to take it a little longer, as a favor to me 
which I may or may not ever be able to repay; in which 
case you will be compelled, I fear, to charge additional 
loss entailed by my request to the unreasonableness of my 
sex. Voild tout ” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


A careful search at the bottom of Dunbar’s heart would 
have revealed another motive, in addition to those already 
mentioned, for his disinclination to bring matters to a 
crisis in his present dilemma; and that was a very strong 
suspicion that by doing so he should disoblige Catherine 
Marley. Her letter having particularly confirmed this 
theory, he was resolved to lose no time in coming to a full 
knowledge of her position in the matter at the approaching 
interview. They met, as before, at the Leicester Square 
restaurant. 

“You will think me a very strange woman, Mr. Dunbar,” 
she began, as soon as opportunity offered, “but the fact is 
I can’t help it. I am strange. That is, I am strange even 
to myself. That man is a villain, and deserves much more 
punishment for his crimes than he will ever receive for 
them; but, for all that, I beg you not to be the means of 
starting a prosecution against him. I know it is asking a 
great deal of a man to forego his just revenge upon a 
scoundrel who has treated him as badly as our friend has 
treated you; but, for my sake, if I have any possible right 
to ask such a favor, do not set the machinery of the law 
in motion against this man!” 

There was an earnestness in the woman’s voice which 
vibrated through every word she uttered as she made this 
request; while the tears starting to her eyes proclaimed 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


190 

the intensity of the inward struggle it had caused her 
to make it. She was a rather cold and very proud per- 
son by nature, and Dunbar had the delicacy to perceive 
and to appreciate the extent of the humiliation she was 
undergoing in pleading the cause of a worthless man. 
“What is the claim he has upon her ?” he asked himself. 

She went on : “If it were a case in which to keep silent 
was to invite further bad treatment, it would be another 
thing; but, situated as he is, he cannot do you any further 
injury if he would. I saw him only a day or two ago. He 
is much broken. He is living like a dog. He is being 
punished for what he has done. He thinks he is being 
hunted, and that is as bad as if he really were. Bad as 
his present condition is, it can only grow worse as his 
money gives out. He has no resources within himself to 
make his living, and starvation stares him in the face. 
He is a very bad man, but I pity him.” 

“And you have no other motive than pity ?” 

“That is my affair,” she said, somewhat brusquely. 

“Pardon me, it is your affair, undoubtedly; but some- 
how it would be easier for me to make up my mind what 
to do if I understood your motive for asking for leniency 
for this man. For myself, I think he deserves to incur 
the full penalty of the law. That is, of course, assuming 
that he is guilty of the crimes of which we suspect him; 
of which there can be very little doubt.” 

“None at all, I am ready to admit.” 

“But don’t you think it is a menace to society to allow 
such a man to be at large?” 

“Not at all. Unless you imprison him for life, which 
you could hardly do for the crime we suppose him to have 
committed, you will make him a far more dangerous enemy 
to society by sending him to prison for a time, and then 
liberating him. By doing that you will convert an accidental 
criminal into an habitual one. You will furnish the man 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


1 9 1 


with a grievance; you will make him vindictive against so- 
ciety, whereas, up to now, like a good many other men you 
meet in the ordinary walks of life, he thinks the world 
owes him a living, and he is simply taking it where he can 
find it.” 

“Then you would abolish prisons altogether?” 

“No, not necessarily. There are, undoubtedly, and al- 
ways will be many people in the world whom it would be 
better for the world to keep in prison. Most of them, 
however, in my opinion, have been made dangerous by 
former imprisonment. When we get away from the idea 
of glutting either the public or the individual desire for 
revenge, we shall have made a long stride in the direction 
of reforming the masses. As it is, we never send a man 
or a woman to prison without not only making a worse 
man or woman, but without setting them to corrupting 
others ; both in and out of prison.” 

“I am inclined to think you are right in a very large 
degree. And so you wish me not to proceed against the 
man on general principles, rather than on personal 
grounds?” 

“Pity is a personal motive, I suppose; and I pity him.” 

“Well, then, in a word, what do you wish me to do ?” 

“I wish you, I beg of you to shield this man from the 
consequence of his crimes; to pocket the loss it will entail 
upon you for the present, and to wait for the processes 
of time to work out a final settlement of the account. It 
may take years to do it, but it will come round in time. I 
am not a good Christian, but the older I grow, the less 
desire I have for revenge; and the more I believe in the 
operation of a law of compensation in human affairs which 
works out sublime results in its own good time and way.” 

“Well, I yield to your logic, Mrs. Marley,” said Dun- 
bar. “I promise you to take no active part in bringing 


ig2 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


that man to justice. I will wait, as you suggest, for the 
grand results of time. Will that satisfy you?” 

“Yes, it will ; and it shall be my one object in life to see 
that you shall not lose by making this promise.” 

This brought the interview to an end. The next morn- 
ing Dunbar called upon his Bankers. He found the man- 
ager, Mr. Brown, in a very different humor from any he 
had ever observed before. London Bankers are easily upset 
by anything irregular in the conduct of their clients. 
There had been a good deal that was irregular in Dun- 
bar’s conduct of late; and, possibly for the very reason 
that the Bank had not lost a penny by it, the manager 
felt himself in a position to read a lecture to his erring 
depositor. 

“Mr. Dunbar,” he began, “of course you understand we 
can’t allow this sort of thing to go on in our Bank without 
a full explanation on your part. We shall expect of you 
now a statement as to your affairs; and, um, a promise to 
discontinue any more bill discounting. We cannot under- 
stand why you ever should have resorted to it, in the first 
instance.” 

“Have you any more bills of mine, Mr. Brown ?” 

“Ho, we have not. You have paid them all.” 

“And I still have a respectable balance remaining in 
your hands?” 

“Oh, yes, of course; but that does not excuse — ” 

“I am not asking to be excused, Brown. If you don’t 
like the manner in which I conduct my affairs, just draw 
me a cheque for my balance, and I will go elsewhere.” 

“Oh, no, Mr. Dunbar, we don’t mean that. Only, of 
course, you can readily understand — •” 

“I can readily understand nothing; Brown, except that 
I decline to be lectured by you without due cause; and, if 
I have any more of it, I shall leave your Bank and try 
and find one where I shall be treated differently. I wish 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


I 9 3 


you a very good morning, sir.” And at that he walked out 
of the Bank parlor, leaving the manager a good deal con- 
fused and not a little repentant. Dunbar had been gone 
but a few moments when Brown went to the door of an 
inner room, which had remained partly open during the 
interview, and motioned to a man who had been sitting 
there to come to him. Responding to the gesture, our 
©Id friend, Inspector Evans entered. 

“Well, Evans, did you hear all that was said?” 

“I did, sir, but I don’t see as you got much information. 
Certainly not enough to make a complaint upon. I thought 
you intended to ask some questions in order to find out 
something in regard to this affair, sir?” 

“I fully intended to, but Dunbar is so infernally inde- 
pendent he gave me no opportunity. You see, his is a very 
valuable account, and the Bank would not like to lose it.” 

“Yes, I see, sir; but it rather makes a fool of me to 
send for me to look into an important affair like a sus- 
pected forgery of a large number of bills, and then to let 
the only witness we could make much out of slip through 
our fingers as you did Mr. Dunbar. Its a little hard, sir. 

“I can’t help it, Mr. Evans. As the matter stands now, 
in any case, we have no grounds to proceed upon, as the 
bills have been duly paid; and are now in the hands of 
the payee. I had hoped, of course, to get Dunbar to place 
the matter in your hands; but I certainly cannot compel 
him to, as you can well understand.” 

“Yes, sir, you can lead an ’orse to the water, but you 
can’t make ’im drink. It would have been a feather in 
my cap to ’ave pulled this matter off, as we ’ave been sus- 
picious of this man Gow for some time. However, ’is time 
will come some of these days. That kind of man seldom 
keeps out of trouble long.” 

“Has Scotland Yard any idea where he is?” 

“Oh, yes, sir ; he’s in Paris right enough, or somewhere 


13 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


194 

on the continent. Of course we can’t do much without a 
warrant ; but we’d soon run ’im to earth with one.” 

“Well, keep your eye on him; for I have reason to be- 
lieve there are still a rather large amount of bills to be 
paid. Dunbar may get tired of losing money some of these 
days, and conclude to take proceedings against this man 
Gow.” 

“Eight, sir, we will.” And here Evans took his leave. 

After this, Dunbar was called upon to pay a number of 
other bills which had been discounted in other Banks; the 
aggregate of which, with the sum already paid made him 
a loser of about twenty-five or thirty thousand pounds. 
There the matter was allowed to rest. True to his promise 
to Catherine Marley, he never took any steps to punish the 
offender; but pocketed his loss, and said nothing about 
it. Gow, wherever he was, remained there; and was lost 
to his old friends, while his old haunts knew him no more. 

The next event of importance with Dunbar was the birth 
of a son and heir. This happy incident did much to heal 
the dissensions among the women of his family, for the 
present at least; and he found himself settling down into 
the dignified life of a country gentleman in one of the 
loveliest counties of England, with a charming wife, an in- 
teresting family, a town house, an immense income, and, 
to all appearances, as secured a future as any man could 
wish or hope for. But, and there is always a “but,” or an 
“if” in mundane affairs, in a far distant country in the 
West, a small cloud, no bigger than a man’s hand, was ris- 
ing, which, in the interests of the reader of this story, 
it will become our duty to investigate, even at the cost 
of making a trip to America again, and to Virginia City; 
where we last left our friend Dobson. This gentleman had 
been getting on about as well as a “tenderfoot,” and an 
Englishman at that, could expect to do. He had suc- 
ceeded in losing the greater part of his money, that is, of 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


195 


the money he was known to have. As has already been 
stated, he kept a reserve fund always about his person in 
case of extreme need. He had made many acquaintances, 
some of whom were desirable ones, others distinctly unde- 
sirable; and still others who were undesirable, only he 
had yet to find it out. In a rough place like a Western 
mining town at the time we speak of, there were many 
men to be found, who, like Dobson himself, had pasts 
which perhaps would hardly bear looking into. Dobson 
did his best to get on with these men, and to get upon terms 
upon which he could some day hope to do as they appeared 
to be able to do, that is, to adapt himself to his new sur- 
roundings and begin to make money. But Dobson was 
getting on in years, and had never had the faculty of get- 
ting on very well with anyone. Then he was an Englismau, 
and in the great and glorious West there are plenty of 
Americans to be found who fail to recognize the fact that 
the Revolutionary war was ended long ago. Their anti- 
British prejudices remain as strong as ever, and an Eng- 
lishman is considered fair game for anything, from a prac- 
tical joke to a highway robbery. As our friend Dobson 
also had prejudices which he took very little apparent 
trouble to conceal, he unconsciously aggravated this con- 
dition of affairs; and succeeded wonderfully in making 
enemies instead of friends. 

Finding, after the loss of all the money he had put into 
his first venture, that he was not cut out for a miner, he 
had now opened a law office, where he began to look into 
the mining laws of the country, and finally to build up a 
little business amongst the prospectors who came to him for 
counsel in matters relating to their mining claims. He 
was sitting in his office one day, when the door opened, and 
a young man of perhaps twenty-five years of age, well set, 
handsome, and evidently of Irish descent, judging from his 
slight brogue, entered the room. 


PATRICK DVR BAR 


196 

“What can I do for you, sir?” asked Dobson. 

“Well, sir. I’m not at all sure you can do anything; but 
I heard you were from London, and I thought perhaps you 
could tell me something of a relative I have over there, 
a sister.” 

“Um, London is a pretty large place.” 

“Is it, sir? Would it be as large as Frisco, sir?” 

Dobson gave the young man a look of silent contempt, 
as he answered, “London has a population of rising five 
millions. I don’t know how many San Francisco has; a 
good deal less than half a million, I suppose.” 

“Whew, sir, but that’s an awful number; five millions. 
Its hardly likely you’ve ever even seen my sister, let alone 
being acquainted with her.” 

“Hardly ; but what is her name ? Curious things some- 
times happen. I may have met her without knowing it.” 

“Dillon, sir, Kate Dillon.” 

“No, I can’t recall ever having met such a person. Has 
she been there long ?” 

“Some fifteen years, sir.” 

“And doesn’t she write you?” 

“She did, sir; but she’s fallen off of late. I haven’t 
heard from her for a matter of five or six years. I’m afraid 
she’s dead or married; or something has gone wrong with 
her. She was as regular as a clock in writing for a long 
time after leaving home.” 

“I should have thought you would have gone to London 
to look her up,” said Dobson, carelessly, and taking up a 
letter, as if to intimate that he would like to bring the 
interview to a close. 

“Sure, I never thought of that/ said the young man, 
partly to himself; and then perceiving the lack of inter- 
est the older man took in his affairs, now that it had be- 
come apparent that there was probably no money in them 
for him, he was about to take his leave, when a thought 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


I97 

seemed to strike him, for he stopped just short of the 
door, and turning so as to face Dobson, said, awkwardly: 
“You are a lawyer, sir, and naturally don’t care to do busi- 
ness for nothing. Now, I’ve some money, sir, and I’m 
willing to spend it in trying to find my sister. As you know 
London and I don’t, perhaps you would as soon take up 
this business for me as any other?” 

"Well,” said Dobson, pricking up his ears at the word 
"money,” "I’m not an inquiry office, you know; but, pos- 
sibly I might be able to assist you in some way. At any 
rate, it would do no harm for you to tell me your story. 
After that, if I can do you no good, I can tell you so, and 
there will be no great harm done.” 

"Thank you, sir, that’s just what I’d like,” said the 
young man, returning to the chair he had just left, and sit- 
ting down in response to a motion from Dobson. "Of 
course, sir, you understand this is a matter of business, and 
I expect to be charged for this consultation at the usual 
rates.” 

Dobson nodded his head affirmatively, and settling back 
in his chair, half closing his eyes, crossing his legs, rest- 
ing his elbows on the arms of his chair, and clasping his 
hands, prepared to listen to his new client’s story. The 
latter, evidently satisfied now that he wns paying for the 
time and attention bestowed upon him, also assumed a 
position suggestive of having rather a long one to tell, be- 
gan as follows: 

"I was bom in a mining camp in this country, sir, some 
twenty-five years ago. Both my mother and my father 
died when I was very young; so young indeed that I have 
only the faintest recollection of them. After the death 
of my parents, it became a question amongst the miners 
of our camp what was to done with me and my sister, 
who was a baby like myself, but a year or two older. At 
that time there happened to be an Irishman in our camp 


PATRICK DURBAR 


198 

who had lately drifted in upon us from the East. He 
was evidently a gentleman, but one who had seen better 
days. Of course, sir, I am not speaking from my own 
recollection now, for I was but an infant. I learned of 
these particulars afterwards. This gentleman had given 
his name as Sheehan; but, as in a rough mining country 
like ours, men of all kinds came together, many of whom, 
for reasons of their own, don’t wish to be known by their 
true names, it is customary to never make inquiries, but 
to take any man’s name just as he gives it. I speak of 
this, sir, in order to explain what happened afterwards. 
This Mr. Sheehan took pity upon us helpless orphans, and 
said he would take care of us as best he could; and, as 
this was apparently the best arrangement that could be 
made for us, my sister and I were turned over to him. I 
have an indistinct recollection of my childhood now, 
growing of course more vivid as time went on. Our pro- 
tector was evidently by no means well off in the world 
when he first took charge of my sister and myself, and we 
lived poorly. As time went on, however, matters appeared 
to improve with him. He made money and prospered ; or I 
assume he did, for our style of living changed decidedly for 
the better. Mr. Sheehan was a quiet man, moody, per- 
haps; but he was always kind to us, and we became in 
time very fond of him. For one thing I have to be grate- 
ful to him, he took the greatest pains with our educations, 
my sister’s and mine. Nothing was too good for us in this 
line. We were sent to the best schools he could find, and 
he spared no expense. As we grew older, he sought to 
shield us from contact with the rougher element of society 
one finds in a mining community, and was continually 
reminding us that good manners were the best passport to 
success one could have in the world. We were in due time 
sent to boarding schools near San Francisco, and I was 
afterwards sent to college. Mr. Sheehan, not being mar- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


199 

ried, found a difficulty in looking after my sister, which 
naturally increased rather than the reverse as she grew 
older. He was a very conscientious man, and earnestly 
wished to do the very best he could for us, but he often 
told both my sister and myself that as she must some day 
grow to womanhood, and as his prospects and movements 
were very uncertain, he should avail of the first opportunity 
that offered to place my sister in life with the most suitable 
persons he could find for the purpose. Such an oppor- 
tunity offered at last: An English gentleman and his wife 
visiting the country in some way came in contact with Mr. 
Sheehan, and a mutual friendship sprang up between them. 
This lady and gentleman took an especial liking to my 
sister, who had by this time grown to be a pretty girl, 
and offered to take her into their family; not exactly to 
adopt her, but to finish her education in England and to 
fit her to take care of herself as a governess. As this seemed 
to be a very desirable arrangement, it was carried out, 
and my sister and I parted ; she going to England, and I 
remaining in San Francisco to finish my college course. 
After my graduation my protector took me into business 
with him, first as a clerk, and finally as a partner. Both 
of us being much alone in the world, a strong attachment 
grew up between us, and we became inseparable. He loved 
me as a son, and I him as a father. Business prospered 
with us. We were mining prospectors or promoters; and in 
a new country like this there were many opportunities for 
making money in dealing in mining claims. We made 
money, and we occasionally lost it; but, in the main, we 
were successful/ 7 

Here Dobson shifted his position a little, and allowed a 
somewhat bored look to supplant the judicial one with 
which he had so far listened to the young man’s story. 
The latter noticed this, and said, “I have nearly reached 
the end of what I have to say, sir. I thought it best to 


200 


PATRICK DURBAR 


begin at the beginning in order that you could understand 
the end; that’s all.” 

“Go on,” said Dobson. 

“Well, sir, as time wore on, I noticed that my protector 
grew more silent and more morose than ever. He was 
always kind to me, you understand, it wasn’t that; but I re- 
member one day a batch of letters reached him with a for- 
eign postage stamp on them. They looked as if they had 
been waiting for him for a long time somewhere, and 
when he finished reading them he looked angry and wor- 
ried. Then some correspondence followed between him 
and his people in England, for I knew of his both sending 
and receiving letters. Finally, a letter came which seemed 
to particularly exasperate him. I watched him while he 
was reading it, and heard him mutter under his breath: 
“Hot a cent of my money shall he have, nor his heirs; so 
help me God.” 

“The next day he sent for his lawyer, with whom he re- 
mained closeted for several hours. After this, he began to 
fail perceptibly, and anyone could see that he was not long 
for this world. He soon took to his bed, which he never 
again left until we placed him in his coffin. As his end 
drew near, he sent for me, and requesting me to sit by 
the side of his bed, said he wished to talk with me while he 
was in the full possession of his senses. He then some- 
what briefly told me the story of his life, both before and 
after his arrival in this country, with which I shall not 
trouble you any further than as to where it bears upon my 
own. In a few words, he had had some family misunder- 
standings at home which had made it desirable for him to 
leave for foreign parts. He had borrowed some money 
from his brother, it seems, which had caused friction ; and, 
upon his arrival in Hew York, he had been induced to put 
money into some enterprises which had turned out un- 
fortunately. Finally, he had become so involved as to 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


201 


render it necessary for him to again resort to a loan from 
his brother, which naturally enough, served to inflame 
rather than to allay the feud between them. In making 
his demand for this loan, he had pleaded his own per- 
sonal safety, as he had in some way rendered himself 
liable to arrest as the result of his business misadventure 
in New York. He only asked for money enough to clear 
his name from reproach, and to enable him to get away 
from the scene of his financial disaster, and offered as a 
rather contingent security, a will in his brother’s favor; 
which was duly enclosed in his letter. The money came, 
but with it a letter of disapproval of his late course which 
so irritated him that he swore never again to communicate 
with his brother except for the purpose of liquidating his 
debt. This oath he literally adhered to. In leaving New 
York, which he did immediately upon receiving the money 
to pay his indebtedness, he took particular pains to con- 
ceal his future plans, and to cover up all traces by which 
he could be followed, or even written to. He started for 
the West, and eventually, after many adventures, drifted 
into our mining camp, as I have already related. In the 
course of time, as he made money, he scrupulously paid 
back every cent, not only of the loan made him in New 
York, but of all the preceding ones. More than that, he 
added to the total sum an amount which more than repre- 
sented a fair rate of interest for all the moneys he had 
ever received from his family; and this, without in any 
way invalidating the will he had made in his brother’s 
favor, whom he still looked upon as his heir. One would 
have supposed that such treatment upon his part would 
have served to heal all the dissensions which had embit- 
tered his family life ; but this did not seem to be the case. 
For some reason, I know not what, but I believe owing 
to the attitude assumed by his brother’s wife , rather than 
his brother, the olive branch he had offered his people in 


202 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


England was not kindly received; and it embittered him 
beyond anything in his life which had so far taken place. 
As a result, he resolved to make a new will, and to entire- 
ly cut off the inheritance which might have gone to his 
brother or his brother’s heirs.” 

“This new will was made in my favor. Upon his death- 
bed, as it proved to be, he adopted me as his son. His will 
had been already formally drawn and witnessed. It be- 
queathed to me absolutely all property wheresoever situated, 
together with his business, his interests in various mines, 
his property in San Francisco; in a word, he gave me all 
he had to give, and with only one condition; which was 
really less a condition than a reminder; and that was, that 
I should always protect and support my sister.” 

“This is all, sir; and now you understand my anxiety to 
find my sister. I have two motives, first, my love for her; 
second, the desire to faithfully carry out the wishes of one 
of the kindest of protectors a man ever had. Now, sir, as 
I am very well to do in the world, money is no object as 
compared with results. I reproach myself for not having 
moved in the matter long ago; but, from a remark in the 
last letter I received from my sister, I inferred that for 
some reason she preferred to discontinue the correspond- 
ence for awhile. As at the time of her writing it she was 
engaged as a governess in a highly respectable family, I 
attributed her attitude to some possible misunderstanding 
with her employers, or to a meditated change of situation. 
At any rate, I allowed both the time, and as it turned out, 
the opportunity to recommence our correspondence to slip 
by; for when I again wrote her, the letter was returned 
through the dead letter office, marked “address unknown.” 
Since then I have made inquiries as best I could, but, so 
far, to no purpose whatever; I regret to say. For some 
years I have given over trying to find her, hoping against 
hope that some day I should receive a letter from her ex- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


203 


plaining her long silence. As matters stand now, I am 
determined to spend my last dollar in finding her, if alive. 
So, sir, I am prepared to take yonr advice, whatever it is. 
If you say the word, I am ready to set out immediately for 
London, although from what you say, I fear I should not, 
unaided, accomplish much there, it is such a vast place 
from what you say of it; and I am only a simple, country- 
bred boy.” 

Here the young man paused, as if resting his case ; at the 
same time giving an anxious look into his companion’s 
face to see whether or no he could look for kindness or as- 
sistance in that quarter. Dobson, although a hard man, 
could not help marking the utter insouciance and helpless- 
ness of his new client, and it appealed to him. “I will do 
the best I can,” he answered, with some appearance of feel- 
ing, “but you must understand that, after the lapse of 
time you speak of, it will probably be a long, a difficult, 
and an expensive search. When people disappear in Lon- 
don, either of their own volition or otherwise, its a good 
deal like looking for a needle in a stack of hay to find them ; 
but, still, we may accomplish something, after all. So 
many strange things happen in this world. By the way, 
what is your full name?” 

“Patrick Dillon.” 

Dobson took it down. “Yes, and I have your sister’s 
name, Kate Dillon, or Catherine, I suppose?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And now the name of the family in which you say your 
sister acted as governess ?” 

“Gow.” 

Dobson, started, as if a small bomb had suddenly ex- 
ploded under his chair; but he preserved presence enough 
of mind to ask: “And now, last of all, what was the real 
name of Mr. Sheehan, your protector?” 

“Patrick Dunbar.” 


CHAPTER XY. 

There are certain unexpected events in life which sug- 
gest the idea that sometimes Fate in a frolic mood, out 
of a million possible combinations, selects the very last, 
the millionth, for the express purpose of astonishing the 
sons of men. Some such thought was in Dobson’s mind, 
at any rate, as he sat looking in amazement at the young 
man before him. He had listened to the long story his 
new client had had to tell with just about as much sym- 
pathy as could be expected from a tired, world-worn man 
whose interest in life had long since ceased to concern 
itself with any but his own affairs. He was in a sad plight 
himself, and he pitied himself more than anyone else in 
the world. To be sure, there had been a certain interest 
attaching to the story, as young Dillon had told it. It 
would have been interesting if he had seen it in print in a 
magazine as a “short story.” Up to the last half dozen 
words of it, it had possessed very little more than a literary 
interest to him, however. A heart long since closed to pity 
is not easily reopened by a tale of woe. It must appeal 
to some other emotion than pity ; to some other organ than 
the heart. But all this had changed now. Fate had evi- 
dently selected him as the beneficiary of the new shuffle 
she had made of the cards. He was to be the one to benefit 
by the millionth chance! 

And what a chance it was. There sat a young man be- 
fore him, who absolutely unconsciously to himself held 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


205 


the destinies of several persons in his hand; his own in- 
cluded. And now the question arose in Dobson’s mind 
how to play the cards Fate had so miraculously dealt him. 
A false play might easily not only spoil the game, but make 
it a most unfortunate circumstance his having been one 
of the players in it. To reveal to Dillon his strength, 
might result unfortunately; as it is supposed to do in 
dealing with the horse. You must know your horse. To 
inform Dillon that he, Dobson, had left London because 
he had robbed the supposed heir of the late Patrick Dun- 
bar, could hardly be expected to prove a pleasant piece of 
news to the real heir who would ultimately be called upon 
to stand the loss. On the contrary, it would be eminently 
calculated to lead to unpleasant results. Not to inform 
him, would of course be to throw away the opportunity of 
his life to recoup himself for all his losses, to render it 
possible for him to return to London, and to turn the 
tables upon certain of his friends in that city, who, if they 
had not rejoiced to see him leave, could hardly be expected 
to rejoice to see him return. 

All of these thoughts passed through his mind in review, 
until it suddenly occurred to him that his pre-occupation 
would soon begin to make itself evident to the young man 
whom of all others in the world, as matters had turned out, 
it was the most important for him to study and conciliate. 
So, with an almost apparent effort, he concentrated his 
mind upon the salient point in the whole situation ; name- 
ly, the will: "You spoke of Mr. Dunbar’s will,” he said, 
with an assumed carelessness. "I suppose you have every 
reason to suppose it is in order?” 

"Oh, yes. The will was most carefully drawn. Mr. 
Dunbar looked out for that. Both upon my account, and 
because, having once made up his mind to disinherit his 
brother and his heirs, he left no stone unturned to carry 


206 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


out his intention. He even took the precaution, he told 
me before he died, having secured the best lawyer he could 
find to draw it, to engage the next best to revise it in order 
to detect any possible indications of weakness. There were 
none to be found. It was perfect, and has long since been 
probated and I am in full possession of his estate.” 

Dobson smiled inwardly at the complacency of this sim- 
ple-minded young man. “What would he say if I told him 
of the millions waiting for him to take possession of?” 
he said to himself. Then aloud: “I should like to see the 
document, or a copy of it. That is, if you still wish me 
to take this matter up for you. You see, Mr. Dunbar, ac- 
cording to your story, having been a citizen of another 
country, the laws of that country might apply in certain 
contingencies. For instance, suppose, I say, suppose there 
should turn out to be an estate waiting for you in some 
other part of the world which even your protector was ig- 
norant of at the time of his death. In such a case, I being 
familiar with the English practice, would be in a position 
to give you some advice as to any action you should take 
in this country before leaving for England; which, sooner 
or later you may be called upon to do.” 

“I see, sir ; and I will secure a certified copy of the will, 
which is in the Surrogate’s office, at once; although I feel 
quite sure that all such matters have already been pro- 
vided for.” 

“You can’t be too particular in such matters,” the crafty 
old fellow said, carelessly. “So, get me a copy and bring it 
to me as soon as convenient. In the meantime I will be 
considering the next steps to be taken.” 

Saying which, he made a movement as if to indicate that 
the interview was at an end. When the young man had 
taken his departure, Dobson sat for a long time thinking 
matters over. “And what is to be done next?” he asked 
himself. “If I send that young booby over to London by 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


207 

himself to take possession of his estate, he will be sure 
to fall in with some legal gentleman who will put ideas 
into his head which will first take him out of my hands, 
and then turn him against me. If I am any judge of char- 
acter, this young fool is not a man to be trifled with. He 
would be easily led up till the time when he first began to 
suspect something was wrong; and then he would turn 
upon you like a grizzly bear. There would be no pity, no 
remorse, no sentiment about it at all. He would shoot a 
man in London who attempted to take advantage of him 
just as quickly as he would here ; and that’s altogether too 
quick to suit my purposes. If I should send him with a 
letter to Gow, that damned rascal would fleece him and I 
should never see a penny of the spoils. Of course, I can't 
send him to Dunbar, as that would be about the same thing 
as going myself. He would tell Dunbar where I am, and 
I could not ask him not to without exciting his suspicions. 
Its a puzzle any way you look at it.” 

It will be remembered that when Dobson was about to 
leave London he had drawn certain cheques which he had 
posted to a confidential agent to be disposed of in a man- 
ner he had directed while his plans for absconding were 
being matured. This man was named Sharnell; and was 
about as precious a rascal as walked the devious paths of 
a shady legal practitioner in London. The man had had 
some training in the law, just enough to make him dan- 
gerous to any interest entrusted to him except his own. 
He was desperately needy, a drunkard, and everything un- 
desirable; but, he was a tool which Dobson could generally 
use to his own advantage, when he had money with which 
to pay for such use. Before finally leaving London this 
man had been of service to him in many ways; and, Dob- 
son being in funds, he had been well paid for his trouble. 
He was now, for this reason, in a frame of mind, it was to 
be assumed, favorable to any new: scheme Dobson might 


208 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


have to propose. Dobson, seeing no advantage to be gained 
by it, had not confided to Sharnell his objective point in 
seeking a new field for his endeavors, thinking that when 
necessary he could always communicate with him ; whereas, 
once having confided in him, it would be impossible to 
withdrawn his confidence; thus placing himself in the 
man’s power. 

It suddenly occurred to Dobson now that it might be 
well to ascertain as nearly as possible just what steps had 
been taken in the matter of his prosecution. Sharnell was 
hand in glove with every detective in London; was, in 
fact, half detective himself. It would be a comparatively 
easy matter for him to find out, for instance, whether or 
no a warrant had ever been taken out for his arrest, and 
if so, whether the government had taken the matter up, 
or it was to be only a private prosecution. In the latter 
case, it might be bought off, or the matter compromised. 
By the sudden and most important turn of the wheel which 
had just taken place, it was now of the last importance to 
him to be able not only to return to London, but to be able 
to comfortably remain there; unless, by doing so he were 
likely to stir up a prosecution, which, if left to itself would 
in time die a natural death. After thinking the matter 
carefully over, Dobson finally decided to write to this man. 
If, as a result of his having done so, he found it was safe 
for him to return to London, he would return, taking 
young Dillon with him in order to keep him absolutely 
under his own control. If it was not safe for him to re- 
turn, some other arrangement could be made. Carrying 
out this plan of action, he therefore now sat down and 
wrote a long letter to his old friend, in which he fully set 
forth the pecuniary advantage it would be to both of them 
for him to be able to again walk the streets of dear old 
London in safety. 

This letter having been written and despatched, Dobson 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


209 


set himself, during the interval required for an answer to 
reach him, to carefully looking into every circumstance con- 
nected with the case which could be of the slighest possible 
advantage to him in the unraveling of the tangled skein of 
Dunbar’s and his own affairs which he should have to un- 
dertake upon his return to his native land. 

To begin with, he found the will in perfect order, as 
young Dillon had said it w T as. Having become perfectly 
familiar with the Dunbar estate from his former connec- 
tion with it, it was a comparatively easy task for him to 
grasp the whole situation now. In reading over the will 
carefully, for instance, many matters which had perplexed 
both Dunbar and himself in connection with the former 
will were made perfectly clear. There had evidently been 
a quarrel over money matters, aggravated by some inju- 
dicious member of the family, which had so irritated the 
late Patrick Dunbar that he had simply made a new will 
for the express purpose of leaving his family out of it. A 
further search among young Dunbar’s papers in London 
would undoubtedly bring to light a lot of correspondence 
relative to the whole matter. What a club all this was 
destined to become in the hands of an unprincipled man 
like Dobson in his future relations with young Dunbar ! 

In due course, an answer to his letter reached our friend 
Dobson, the sum and substance of which was that, al- 
though, as far as could be ascertained, no action had been 
taken against him, time enough had not yet elapsed to 
make it by any means sure that there would not be one 
taken if Dobson was seen in London by any one interested 
in him. Knowing as Dobson did, Shamell’s ability to get at 
the kernel of such matters, this in itself was reassuring 
news. It meant that with care, he, Dobson, might be 
in London a long time without being seen by anyone at all 
likely to make it his or her business to bring the fact of 
his having returned to the attention of the authorities. So 


14 


210 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


far, so good. The next piece of news contained in the let- 
ter was almost equally comforting; and that was the de- 
falcation of his old friend Gow, and the fact that even he 
had not as yet been prosecuted by Dunbar. Either one of 
these two items of information, taken by itself, would hard- 
ly have established a safe departure for him in his present 
undertaking; but, taken together, and with the exercise 
of due caution on his part, as he approached the scene of 
action, there were not by any means insuperable barriers to 
his return to his native land ; and he decided to go. 

He sent for Dillon, therefore, and told him that with a 
view to saving him time and money, he had written to 
London to make certain inquiries in regard to his matters, 
which would have had to be made in any case, and which 
had now assumed proportions where in his opinion it 
would be well for both of them to immediately set out for 
London. He also told Dillon that in the interests of suc- 
cess in the whole matter, two or three things would have 
to be agreed upon then and there and as a condition of his 
taking the matter up at all. These things were, first, that 
Dillon was to pay all expenses, having before starting 
placed in his hands a retaining fee of three thousand dol- 
lars : He was to be in a position at all times to make ad- 
ditional payments, as the exigencies of the case demanded. 
Second, as the matter in question, being of a very delicate 
nature, the least indiscretion upon either of their parts 
might easily ruin all prospects of success, Dillon must 
solemnly engage not to interfere in any way in the conduct 
of the affair ; but to submit in every detail and upon every 
occasion to Dobson’s judgment. Third, not knowing Lon- 
don, it would be no part of Dillon’s prerogative to dictate 
in any way their place of residence or their manner of life 
when they reached the place. Looking up a person who 
was lost, or was supposed to be lost in London, was a tick- 
lish piece of business at the best, and must be approached 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


21 


carefully. Dobson had a plan in his mind, which he did 
not care to reveal at the present time, and which he con- 
sidered the most likely one to secure success; but which 
might make it necessary for them to live in out of the way 
places in London, to assume disguises, even to change their 
names; all of which possibilities being in a line with the 
achievement of their ultimate purposes, namely, the dis- 
covery of his sister, Dillon must pledge himself to faith- 
fully act his part in, without a murmur or an objection. 
If he, Dillon, would enter into such an agreement as this, 
and cheerfully co-operate in all Dobson proposed, he 
thought he might assure him the accomplishment of the 
object he had in view. If he refused, why then he, Dobson, 
would drop the matter at once; and have nothing what- 
ever to do with it. 

It is needless to say that Dillon acquiesced in the plan ; 
thus assuring to his companion freedom to take every pre- 
caution for his own safety in London; while, at the same 
time, to pursue a line of investigation and subsequent 
action much more far-reaching than Dillon had any sus- 
picion of; but in which, for all that, he was deeply in- 
terested. So, all these matters being satisfactorily ar- 
ranged, the two men left Virginia City, one bright day, 
and turned their faces in the direction of New York, as 
their first stopping place. Dobson, having, as has already 
been stated, assumed the name of Ferguson, upon his ar- 
rival in the country, could not now very easily divest him- 
self of it, and, as one name was, under his present sur- 
roundings, as good as another to him, he resolved to retain 
it, until, at least, he saw good reason to again change it. 

Upon the journey, Dobson studied his young traveling 
companion with all the interest a sharp old file would bring 
to the study of the character of a man whose life was 
henceforward to be so intimately associated with his own. 
He found him a simple-minded, honest young man, whose 


212 


PATRICK DURBAR 


life having been largely spent in a new country had been 
led in an out-of-doors, manly kind of way. His education 
had been carefully attended to, and he had read a good 
deal for a man of his years; but his knowledge of the real 
world, the world of big cities and of foreign lands, was 
extremely limited. He was still young, trustful and in- 
experienced; but a certain look he had in his eyes when 
aroused, or when he had occasion to feel he was being im- 
posed upon, gave unmistakable evidence that he might 
prove a very uncomfortable person to deal with in any 
other manner than honestly and openly. 

They arrived in Hew York in due time, where Dobson 
took pains to keep out of the way of any possible meeting 
with Mr. Moulton, and, at the same time took occasion to 
carefully observe the development of his young charge 
upon the occasion of his first experience of the life of a 
great city. He found him very adaptable and docile; very 
much interested in what he saw going on about him, and 
anxious to avoid appearing rustic. They remained some 
two or three weeks in the town, during which time Dobson 
had time to indirectly take a look at some of the property 
belonging to his young friend, and, what was more to the 
point, to receive another letter from his agent in London, 
Sharnell, putting him in possession of the news up to 
date. Sharnell had by chance run against Inspector Evans, 
and had gleaned from him the fact that Dunbar had not 
as yet prosecuted Gow, which was tantamount, in his 
opinion to saying that he was not of the prosecuting kind, 
and was hardly likely to now, after a lapse of so long a 
time, do anything otherwise than to sit down and pocket 
his loss. Sharnell advised his friend, however, to take no 
unnecessary chances; and, above all, in no way to make 
himself known to his old friends, upon his arrival in Lon- 
don. An appointment for a meeting was also made at 
a suitable time and place, allowing time, of course, for 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


213 


Dobson to accomplish his journey. As this had the effect 
of still further setting his mind at rest, and as there was 
nothing now to be gained by a longer sojourn in New 
York, they secured passage upon a steamer for Liverpool, 
where they arrived safely, and immediately proceeded on 
to London. Here naturally enough, Dobson’s troubles be- 
gan. He took his young friend to a small tavern he knew 
of in Aldersgate, which possessed the double advantage of 
being in the city, and consequently out of the way of most 
of his old west end associates, and of being near the east 
end, in case a speedy flight to cover should by any possi- 
bility arise. 

After allowing a few days to intervene in which to in a 
measure accustom his companion to the place, and in which 
to replenish their wardrobe, and other little details of the 
kind, Dobson notified Sharnell of his desire to see him. 
They met at a little public house on the Commercial road, 
which both of them knew of as a place where they were 
likely to be undisturbed. Dobson had entered the place 
first, and was interested to see whether or no his old friend 
would recognize him. In a few moments he had the sat- 
isfaction of seeing Sharnell pass by him as if he had been 
an absolute stranger, and take a seat at a table in another 
part of the room, where he sat down, ordered his custom- 
ary drop of Scotch, lighted his pipe, and settled leisurely 
down to wait for the arrival of his friend. This proved 
conclusively to Dobson that his changed appearance had 
deceived at least one of his former friends, and one, too, 
who was looking for him. He was much encouraged by 
this little episode, and now, taking up his glass and ap- 
proaching Sharnell, sat down at his table, and said: 
“Well, my boy, I’m glad to see you.” 

“Good God, Dobson, is that you?” asked Sharnell. 

“Yes, indeed. Why, do you find me much changed ?” 


214 


PATRICK DURBAR 


“Never should have known you in the world; word of 
honor.” 

“So much the better, my boy; for if a sharp, wide-awake 
chap like you doesn’t recognize me, the others are not likely 
to. Well, what’s the latest news. Anything doing?” 

“No, quiet as a country churchyard at midnight. But, 
let me warn you that Scotland Yard is a little put out 
that that young fool Dunbar has not prosecuted that young 
rascal Grow. At first they thought of getting the govern- 
ment to take the matter up; but they had no evidence. 
You see, Dunbar’s having all the forged bills in his 
possession, there could be nothing to proceed upon. Dunbar 
is either an ass and is willing to allow himself to be robbed 
by his friends with impunity, or he is a deep ’un and is 
biding his time. In either case, you are far better off to 
keep under cover until we know more of his plans. Al- 
though I did not recognize you at first sight, that’s no 
reason that Inspector Evans would not. He’s as sharp as 
a terrier after a rat, and if he once caught sight of you, 
he’d follow you until he was absolutely satisfied that Dun- 
bar could not be persuaded to take proceedings against 
you. So, take my tip, and lay low for a while. I will 
keep you posted from time to time, as long as there is any 
danger to be apprehended; and now I have told you all I 
know. What’s your little game, and where do I come into 
it?” 

Here Sharnell settled down into a comfortable but ex- 
pectant attitude, as if, having entirely emptied the secret 
places of his mind for the benefit of his friend, he expected 
his friend to at least do as much for him. Dobson, know- 
ing the man he had to deal with, had recognized from the 
first the unwisdom of pursuing his old policy of only half 
trusting the man he now wished to use not only as a tool, 
but to make his accomplice. He was fully in Shamell’s 
power. A word, a look from him would betray him. He 


PATRICK DURBAR 


215 


was a vindictive man, one who resented a slight, or a half 
confidence; but a deep fellow, who would give no notice of 
his resentment until it was time to act ; and then, one who 
would act quickly, decidedly, and remorselessly. He would 
put up with no nonsense; whereas, if trusted, and par- 
ticularly if he saw his reward in it, he would be faithful. 
Dobson fully intended to get him so tangled up with him- 
self that any piece of treachery he might ultimately con- 
template would fall quite as much upon himself as upon 
his friend. Having once taken a decided step, Dobson was 
not the man to retrace it ; so he began : 

“Well, Orlando, I’ve the prettiest little bit of business 
to lay before you you ever heard of ; much less had a hand 
in.” 

“Have you though?” said Sharnell, rubbing his hands 
with interest, “Well, I can tell you, it’s come in the nick 
of time. I’m about as low in finances as I have ever been 
in my life.” 

“Well, my boy, if we play our cards properly, neither you 
nor I need ever do a hand’s stroke of work again in our 
lives? How does that strike you?” 

“How does that strike me ? How does a good juicy bone 
strike a half-starved dog? Well, let’s have your story. 
I’m all attention.” 

They were sitting in a public house of the lowest class 
in the great thoroughfare of the east end; in a low-studded 
room, a sanded floor, an atmosphere charged with the 
ancient reek of stale liquor and vile tobacco. A few mis- 
erable creatures of both sexes were lounging about, more 
interested in themselves, apparently, than in anything Dob- 
son and his companions might have to say; but, for all 
that, both of these men now made a very careful inspection 
of the surroundings to see that there were no eavesdroppers 
about. Having fully satisfied themselves upon this point. 


2l6 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


they called for a fresh supply of liquor each, and Dobson 
began his story: 

“I didn’t consider it safe to entrust what I have to say 
to a letter, my boy, or you should have had the story I’m 
going to tell you some time ago ; but, as you could hardly 
have acted upon it until I reached London, it’s just as well 
I waited ; as a word of mouth story in business of this kind 
is always better than a written one, as you well know.” 

Sharnell nodded assent, and Dobson went on : “You have 
heard me speak of young Dunbar’s affairs sufficiently to 
know that he is a very rich man, haven’t you?” 

“Yes, I have ; until you relieved him of a good bit of his 
wealth, I assume he was rich; very rich. Well?” 

“Well, what if I should tell you he wasn’t worth a five 
pun note, and that you and I are at present the only two 
men in the world to know it ?” 

Sharnell perceptibly brightened up at the auspicious 
opening of his companion’s story. Here was a field of 
action he was peculiarly at home in. Dobson continued: 
“What if I should tell you that Dunbar inherited from his 
uncle under an early and informal will, executed long be- 
fore the testator had become a rich man, and, consequently, 
long before the estate young Dunbar has come into posses- 
sion of ever existed or was thought of? What if I should 
farther enlighten you by saying that by an accident I have 
discovered a later will, most carefully and legally signed, 
sealed and delivered, and all the rest of it; and, what is 
much more to the point, the heir apparent himself, in 
propria persona ? What, in conclusion, if I were to tell 
you that the heir, the legitimate heir, was in total ignor- 
ance of the existence of the immense estate awaiting him, 
and that I was the only man, woman or child in the world 
who could tell him of his good fortune? Should or should 
not you say that with such a lot of trumps in our hands 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


II 7 

we ought certainly to capture at least a few tricks in the 
game ?” 

Here Dobson paused to take breath, and to watch the 
effect his disclosure had so far produced upon his listener. 
Sharnell’s eyes glistened, his breath came in short respira- 
tions, and he showed every evidence of suppressed but in- 
tense interest. “Well,” the latter exclaimed, “that’s about 
as interesting a fairy tale as I’ve listened to for many a 
day. But, is it any more than a fairy tale? That’s what 
I want to know?” Then, with an ugly look in his eyes, in 
which greed and incredulity were about equally blended, 
he said: “See here, Dobson, if you have patched up this 
story in order to pull the wool over my eyes while you 
use me for some purpose I know nothing of, but where you 
are to get the ha’-pence, and I am going to get the kicks 
and cuffs, as has happened in some of our deals, I warn you 
you have made a mistake. I’m in no mood for that kind 
of a game, nor to be trifled with at all, in any manner what- 
soever. I am older and poorer than when you last em- 
ployed me ; and you, well, you’re not the man you were, by 
any manner of means. You can neither bully me, nor use 
me, nor dupe me, as you once could, and so don’t try; for 
I shan’t put up with it, that’s all.” 

“If, instead of working yourself up into a state of mind 
about a lot of matters long since dead and buried, and 
about another lot of things which are only assumptions on 
your part, you would listen to the details of this matter, 
and assist me with your skill in bringing it to a success- 
ful finish, you would be the same cool-headed old Orlando 
Sharnell I have always found you.” 

“Now, you begin to talk as if you meant business,” 
growled Sharnell, who evidently wished to believe the story 
he had heard; but who had had his hopes dashed too often 
to fully permit of his doing so. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


“And now/’ said Dobson, changing his position so as to 
be able to look his companion fully in the face, “let’s dis- 
cuss our campaign and plan of action. You see, Orlando, 
unless carefully handled, this jnatter may easily prove a 
boomerang to me, and a disappointment to you. The chief 
question for us, naturally enough, is where is the money 
coming from? Dunbar is hardly going to pay us any for 
informing him that he is a pauper; and the real heir at 
present has no money, that is he hasn’t by any means 
enough money to pay us with. How, it seems to me, the 
only way to touch money is to get near enough to where 
it is to be touched. In other words, to get near Dunbar. 
The question is, how may this be accomplished ?” 

“Why isn’t the real heir, the man we are to put in pos- 
session of his own, the man for us to buckle to?” 

“I’ve thought of that, and in due time we surely ought 
to get something out of him; but, Orlando, you and I 
know enough of the law’s delay to appreciate how long a 
time may elapse before the proper owner of the estate ever 
comes into possession of it, that is, supposing the man al- 
ready in possession wishes to contest the matter. I don’t 
know how you are situated financially; but I must have 
money at once; for I’ve long since come to the end of my 
rope.” 

“That’s my case,” growled Sharnell. “Where is the 
heir apparent?” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


2ig 


“He’s here in London.” 

“What’s his name?” 

“His name is Dillon.” 

“Hasn’t he any ready money?” 

“Yes, he has a little. He paid my passage out of it 
from the States. He is paying my living expenses here; 
but, the trouble is he doesn’t know of his fortune, and, nat- 
urally wouldn’t believe in it sufficiently to advance much 
money upon his chance of securing it. That is, I don’t 
think he would. Another thing, he’s in London upon an- 
other piece of business altogether. He’s looking for a lost 
relative, and I’m helping him. For me to turn suddenly 
round and tell him a large fortune as well as a sister is 
waiting for him in London, would, I fear, excite his sus- 
picions, and do more harm than good.” 

“Yes, I see.” 

The men were silent for a while, and then Dobson asked, 
“Where’s Gow?” 

“Gow has disappeared. Inspector Evans says he’s on the 
continent. Whether this is a guess or is based upon actual 
knowledge, I don’t know. These men are generally wrong 
at first, in looking up a man ; although, I admit, if money 
enough is to be spent, they are apt to accomplish something 
in the end. One thing I am pretty sure of, however, and 
that is that I can find Gow if we really need him.” 

“Well, then, set to work to find him; for, its quite safe to 
say we shall need him before we’ve done with this business.” 

With this parting instruction, an agreement for each, 
as far as possible, to prepare a plan of action ; and with an 
appointment to meet at the same place upon the ensuing 
day, the men parted. Sharnell had not asked for Dobson’s 
address, much to the latter’s satisfaction. Although the 
men had, by tacit agreement, taken different directions 
upon leaving their rendezvous, and although Dobson, sus- 
pecting that Sharnell might follow him, had, when oppor- 


220 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


tunity offered, turned round to ascertain whether or no 
he was doing so, and had not felt absolutely safe from 
pursuit until he had placed many a turning and winding 
between them, he was followed for all that. Sharnell had 
fully made up his mind, now that fortune had again thrown 
his old friend in his way, never to lose sight of him again 
until he had squeezed the very last drop of blood out of 
him. With this laudable aim in view, he had employed 
for a few shillings one of his retainers to follow the man 
from whom he should part at the door of the public house 
at which the meeting had taken place. So, Dobson 
plodded along in the direction of his hotel, after he had 
satisfied himself that Sharnell was not upon his trail, 
where he arrived in due time, and found Dillon waiting 
for him. Half an hour afterwards Sharnell was informed 
of the name of the hotel at which his friend was staying, 
the assumed name under which he was staying there, and 
of the general appearance of the young man with whom he 
was associated. 

“And now,” said this astute gentleman to himself, “the 
sport begins; and, unless I am a bigger fool than I think 
I am, I shall soon know more of Dobson’s little game than 
he knows himself.” 

He had been quietly awaiting upon a certain street cor- 
ner for the return of his spy. When he had pumped him 
dry of information in regard to Dobson’s movements, he 
said, “There’s a man named Gow, Sidney Gow, who dis- 
appeared some months ago. He’s wanted for forgery, or he 
may be. The police think he is in Paris. I think he is 
skulking here in the east end. A couple of sovereigns to 
you, if you’ll find him and bring me to him.” 

The man asked for his, Gow’s, general description, 
which Sharnell gave him. 

“Is there a woman following ’im ?” asked the man. 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


221 


“I think very likely,” replied Sharnell, with a sneer, “for 
he was always following the women.” 

“Well, sir, there’s a man taken lodgings in the very 
street I ’appen to live in, Cutter Street. ’E’s been a toff, 
right enough. I can tell that from the cut of ’is toggs 
and ’is manners. ’E’s got a false moustache and a rough 
suit of clothes on, and ’e keeps to ’is ’ouse day times; but 
’e goes out nights for a bit of a stroll, and whenever he does, 
the woman follows ’im. She’s a sly one, an no mistake. 
She never makes a slip, she’s an old ’and at the game, I 
should say. She ’as lodgings in the ’ouse across the way, 
’an she keeps a sharp lookout upon ’im as if her life de- 
pended upon it.” 

“That sounds like the man I’m looking for,” said Shar- 
nell, “but find out the name he has taken his lodgings 
under, and also as much about his doings as possible. Dis- 
cover the woman’s name also; and meet me at the public 
house you saw me coming out of just now, at seven o’clock 
this evening. 

Sharnell here paid the man for the service he had al- 
ready rendered, and left him. At the hour appointed, he 
met him again : 

“Well,” said Sharnell. 

“Man’s known as Stanford at ’is lodgin’ ’ouse. ’Ad a 
little money when he came there, but he begins to show 
signs of bein’ ’ard up now. ’As grown very seedy; an ’as 
been ailing for some time. Seldom goes out now. Is lyin’ 
very low, as if afraid of bein’ followed. Probably sus- 
pects, or ’as seen the ’oman across the street takin’ an 
interest in ’im.” 

“And the woman?” asked Sharnell. 

“The ’ooman is still on the lookout. Gave ’er name as 
Marley, Mrs. Marley, sir. Tall, fine-lookin’ ’ooman; been 
a lady, I dare say.” 

“Very well, and now take me to what’s his name’s lodg- 


222 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


ings, Standford’s; and if he’s the man I’m looking for, 
you get your two sovereigns; if not, not.” 

At this, the two men started out to look for Cutter 
Street, where they arrived in due time. Upon the house 
being pointed out in which Gow had taken refuge, Sharnell 
requested his friend to wait outside while he was absent; 
and then knocked at the door. A sickly looking woman, 
with an infant in her arms answered the summons. As 
soon as the door was unfastened, Sharnell, with a deftness 
which spoke of long practice, pushed his way into the hall- 
way, closing the door behind him. The woman gave a half 
stifled scream, and stood facing him in the half light. 
“Don’t be alarmed, madam,” said Sharnell, “I’m only 
looking for my friend, Mr. Stanford; and, as I know he 
is here, and as I have something of importance and for 
his own good to say to him, and as I shrewdly suspect he 
is at this moment listening at the head of the stairs to what 
I am saying, he will save my time and his own by coming 
down at once. My name is Sharnell, and I’m a friend.” 

The latter part of his speech was spoken quite loud 
enough for anyone standing at the head of the stairs to 
hear him; and, as he had evidently anticipated, it pro- 
duced an immediate effect. 

“Hello, is that you Sharnell?” said a voice. “This way, 
old man; I’m glad to see you. Mind the stairs.” 

The woman, by this time evidently satisfied that the 
intruder was really a friend, now retired, and Sharnell as- 
cended the rickety stairway. 

“Who’d ever have thought of seeing you here?” asked 
Gow of his newly found friend, as he invited him into his 
room, and closed the door. “How the devil did you dig 
me up in this out-of-the-way place.” 

“I’ve dug up a lot of persons in my day, as you well 
know, Gow. Hoiv I did it doesn’t so much matter. But 
now to business. You don’t, somehow, look over pros- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


223 


perous. What if I could put you in the way of turning 
an honest pound or two, would you be game for a little 
risk, in case any was to be taken?” 

Gow looked at his friend and then looked at himself. 
If ever a man, to judge from outside appearances, needed 
a friend, he did. He had grown shabby to a degree that 
was noticeable even in his present squalid surroundings. 
He was also thin and cadaverous, as if he had not enjoyed 
a full meal for many a long day. The room was small, ill- 
smelling, poorly furnished, miserable. There could hardly 
be imagined a more distressful position than his. This 
was judging from the outside. What was going on inside 
could easily be divined by the hunted look in the man’s 
eyes, the utter hopelessness of his attitude both mental and 
physical. 

“Shamell,” he said, after a pause, “For God’s sake, tell 
me what you want, and have done with it. If you’ve come 
here to give me away, say so like a man; I can stand it. 
In fact, I’m so beaten I’d almost made up my mind to 
give myself up, as it is. I know you are needy like myself, 
and I shan’t think so very hard of you if you "turn a little 
money out of my misfortunes; but don’t keep me in sus- 
pense. Come out, like a man, and tell me what’s your 
game.” 

“You fool,” said Sharnell, contemptuously, “you’re no 
sportsman at all, at all. One can do with a man who takes 
a chance, and is sport enough to pay the price, if luck 
goes against him; but, to see a man knock under, as you 
appear to be doing, before he even knows whether he’s 
beaten or not; why, he’s no good. That’s my opinion of 
him, at least.” 

“What do you mean ?” 

“What do I mean ? Why, what are you doing here, hid- 
ing from what, running away from what? You’ve done 
something you think you ought to get into trouble for, and 


224 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


so you take it for granted that the whole police force of 
London is in full cry after you. Now, tell me, what real 
grounds have you to support this assumption?” 

Gow looked rather sheepish, as he answered: "I know I 
am followed. I have seen a person following me.” 

“Yes, a woman.” 

“How do you know it’s a woman ?” asked Gow, excitedly. 

“How do I know anything? I take the trouble and I pay 
the price to find out. That’s how.” 

“Yes, but this woman?” 

“She’s someone you’ve played some dirty trick upon, I 
fancy. You know, Gow, you’ve been up to some rather 
shady tricks in your day.” 

“Yes, possibly; but I don’t seem to know this person, 
somehow ; and if I’d have played her a trick, as you put it, 
I’d be likely to. That’s clear enough, I should say.” 

“In other words, you think she’s connected with the 
police ?” 

“Yes, I do.” 

Sharnell’s plan was to relieve the pressure of anxiety 
upon Gow’s mind just enough to make him a useful tool 
in his hands for the accomplishment of his purpose. To 
have relieved him entirely would have been to render him 
indocile to his control. “Well, it may be so, of course. 
There’s no end to the ingenuity of the police in looking 
a man up when he’s wanted. However, we’ll leave that 
matter to be discussed after I’ve told you my plan. There’s 
no one about to listen, is there?” 

“No,” said Gow, “I think not.” He went to the door, 
however, and suddenly opened it. No one was there. 

“All right,” said Sharnell, when he had returned and 
taken his seat. “And now listen to what I have to say: 
You had a little business with one Patrick Dunbar. 
You’ve been in partnership with him unknown to him, 


PATRICK DTJKBAR 


22 5 

and have occasionally signed the firm’s name to accept- 
ances of which he knew nothing.” 

Gow gave a startled look at this revelation, and then a 
despondent one, as if recognizing the hopelessness of con- 
cealing anything from the knowledge of the man before 
him. 

“Well, am I right, so far?” asked Sharnell. 

“Yes. There’s no good trying to keep any of my affairg 
from you ; and there’s no good in asking you to tell me how 
you found all this out, for you won’t tell me.” 

Sharnell grinned at his friend’s perplexity, but went 
on: “Yes, I happen to know something of the affair. 
’Twould be a pity if I didn't know something of what was 
going on in London, as long as I’ve been in the town. 
Well, now suppose that I was in a way to change the posi- 
tion of your affairs with Dunbar to such an extent that 
instead of his holding the whip over you, you should hold 
it over him. He is now your master, soul and body. 
He’s the very last man in the world you would care to 
meet; and if you did meet him, you would expect him to 
call a policeman and give you in charge. Am I right or 
wrong?” 

“Hang it, you’re right.” 

“Well, if instead of your being afraid of him, I could 
so arrange matters that he would be afraid of you, it would 
be a considerable improvement over the present state of 
affairs, wouldn’t it?” 

“Of course it would.” 

“Of course it would. There can be no possible question 
about that. But there’s a little tail hanging to it.” 

“There always is in such cases.” 

“Yes, always, Gow,” said Sharnell, looking him full in 
the face, as if to lend impressiveness to what he had to 
say, “you are in very serious trouble. You have committed 
a little, well, call it ‘indiscretion,’ for which you could be 


15 


226 


PATRICK DURBAR 


sent away from five to seven years at one of the penal in- 
stitutions of our country. Whether or no any active steps 
have been taken up to this time against you, is wholly a sec- 
ondary consideration, because both you and I know that 
such steps can be taken at any time, if they have not been 
already. You are afraid to walk the streets of London, 
and you’ve no money to leave it with. Now, admitting 
all this, what would it be worth to you to secure your own 
freedom from prosecution and to put your possible prosecu- 
tor in a position where he would be practically powerless 
against you?” 

Gow thought a moment, and then replied: “Why don’t 
you come out with your proposition, man? Tell me how 
this can be done, and name your terms. You can’t frighten 
me any more than I’m already frightened, nor can you tell 
me anything about this miserable affair of mine that I 
don’t already know. So, for the devil’s sake, give over 
tormenting me, and come to business.” 

Shamell, evidently satisfied by the manner in which 
Gow said this, that he had reduced him to a proper sense 
of his helplessness, now assumed the dry, hard tone of a 
business man trying to drive a sharp bargain with a man 
wholly in his power. “I’m in possession of a secret,” he 
went on, “which Dunbar, unless I am wholly out in my 
calculations, would give half of his fortune to know. If 
I put you in a position to tell him this secret and to be- 
come the administrator, so to speak, of it, would you divide 
profits with me squarely, or would you fleece me, as you 
have fleeced most of your friends?” 

“By God, Sharnell, I’d be square with you, old man.” 

There was the tone of conviction in the manner in which 
Gow said this which not infrequently accompanies a prom- 
ise made under compulsion. But Sharnell recognized the 
impossibility of getting a more binding one, and proceeded 
to take a step from which he well knew there would be no 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


227 


drawing back. A secret once told ceases to be a secret; 
as goes without saying. 

“Gow,” he said, “a will has been discovered which su- 
persedes the one under which Dunbar came into possession 
of his property. The real heir is a man named Dillon; 
and he doesn’t yet know of the fortune awaiting him. 
You and I and one other man are the only persons who 
know of this. The other party is a man whom neither you 
nor I need feel any hesitation in cutting out of his share 
in this little piece of business; for he would cut m out, or 
even cut our throats, if he could.” 

“Who is it?” 

“Never mind at present. There are reasons why it is 
just as well you should know no more of this matter just 
now than will serve our purposes. What I have laid out for 
you to do is to go to Dunbar, tell him of the dangerous 
position he is in, and offer to help him out of it; for a 
consideration, of course.” 

“Yes, but how are we to help him out of it ?” 

“I confess I don’t quite know as yet. We must leave that 
part of the business to ripen a little. The great thing is to 
secure Dunbar’s ear before the other fellow does; to head 
him off, so to speak. One advantage to you in being the 
first to tell him of his danger will be to secure yourself 
from prosecution on account of the old affairs. He could 
hardly take action against a man who came to warn him of 
such an important matter as this new will.” 

“You said something about a certain risk I would have 
to assume in this matter. What is it ?” 

“There are two risks; first, the risk of Dunbar’s taking 
immediate action against you as soon as he comes to know 
you are in town. He has been told you are on the conti- 
nent, or God knows where. Its a much less troublesome 
matter to call a policeman and give a man in charge than 
to set the machinery of the law in motion to follow one 


228 


PATRICK DURBAR 


who is supposed to be already out of the country. The 
second risk may arise when we come to carry out our agree- 
ment in regard to securing Dunbar in the possession of his 
estate. If the real heir has to be made to disappear for 
a time, or — forever; for instance. Do you comprehend?” 

“Yes, I think I do; but — ” 

“But what?” 

“Well, I was only wondering whether or no a better bar- 
gain could be made with this man Dillon ?” 

“How are you to do this? He has no money at present, 
and can only have it as the result of having dispossessed 
Dunbar. Once aware of our secret, he could' go on and se- 
cure the estate, and after he had secured it, snap his fingers 
in our faces.” 

“Yes; I see.” 

“Besides which, we don’t know the man; and it would be 
a difficult matter to come to know him at present, as he is 
well watched.” 

Gow now seemed to be immersed in thought. At last he 
6aid: 

“What kind of a proposal do you consider it best to 
make to Dunbar ? I mean in regard to our compensation ?” 

“Well, there again, I’m a little at a loss what to say. 
It ought certainly to be a round sum; especially as there 
will be two at least to share it, and possibly three.” 

“Very well, Shamell, I’ll take the matter up. Situated 
as I am, I can’t be much worse off, and if I get into 
further trouble, why, you must do the best you can to get 
me out of it; that’s all. Call here in two or three days 
and I’ll tell you the result of my first interview with Dun- 
bar. That is, I will, if I’m not detained.” 

As this appeared to be about as far as they could get at 
present, Sharnell now took his departure. He found his 
man waiting patiently at the door, to whom he duly paid 
the promised fee; and, after instructing him to keep a 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


229 

close watch upon three persons, namely, Gow, the woman 
across the street, and young Dillon, he started away. He 
had only advanced a short distance, however, before a 
woman, carefully veiled, accosted him and asked him to di- 
rect her to some street he had never heard the name of. 
The meeting, although so managed as to appear accidental, 
occurred under a street lamp; where Sharnell, not being 
disguised in any way, could easily be recognized; whereas 
the woman’s face, owing to her veil, could not be seen. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


The adjourned meeting between Dobson and Sharnell took 
place the next day as agreed. Sharnell, for reasons of his 
own, now desiring to gain time, told Dobson that he had 
set to work to find Grow with every prospect of success, 
and urged upon him the advantages to be secured by ap- 
proaching Dunbar through him. As Dobson was already 
prepared to admit the force of the arguments advanced by 
his friend, they soon came to the unanimous decision to 
postpone any definite action until Gow’s services could be 
secured. Sharnell gave Dobson an address that would al- 
ways find him in case of need; and the men separated, 
each suspicious of the other while recognizing his in- 
ability to do without him. 

In the meantime, events were occurring in Cutter Street 
which were destined to have considerable bearing upon the 
futures of several of the actors in our little drama. Cath- 
erine Marley who had in the first place followed Gow in 
his flight into the east end, had taken temporary lodg- 
ings in a house across the street from the one in which 
Gow had secured a lodgment. From this place she had 
been able to watch the movements of our friend Gow un- 
observed and unsuspected for some time; but finally Gow 
had begun to feel that he was watched. Catherine’s precau- 
tion to avoid recognition by means of covering her face with 
a veil and by appearing on the street only after night-fall, 
had been so far successful as to still leave Gow in ignorance 
of her identity, but she had considerably disturbed his 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


231 

sense of security ; as has been related in his interview with 
Sharnell. 

The day after this interview, Catherine casually asked 
her landlady whether she knew the tenant of the house 
across the street, and was agreeably surprised to hear that 
Gow’s landlady was her landlady’s sister; also to ascertain 
the fact that they were upon the best of terms, the one 
with the other. Catherine had had her curiosity very 
much aroused by the visit Gow had received the evening 
before, and, as has been seen, had taken measures to get 
a look at the features of the visitor. She had had a good 
look at Sharnell; but, as she had never seen the man be- 
fore, she had gained very little information by it. She 
had made up her mind, however, that the visit, the first 
and only one Gow had received, meant something; and de- 
termined, if possible to find out what it was. The means 
of accomplishing this end were much simplified by the 
revelation of the fact of the relationship of the respective 
landladies of the two houses. She told her landlady that 
she was interested in the lodger in her sister’s house, and 
would very much like to be placed in a position where she 
could observe his movements at closer range than from 
where she was now situated. She promised to make it 
worth her while in a pecuniary way, and her landlady ap- 
peared to jump at this, as in a very few moments after the 
offer had been made, Gow’s landlady was sitting in her sis- 
ter’s sitting room engaged in a close conversation with 
Mrs. Marley, aforesaid. The negotiations took a favorable 
turn from the start, about equally owing to three things, 
namely, the mercenary consideration, the fact that Gow, 
or Standford, as he was known to his landlady, had never 
in the least gone out of his way to placate this lady, and 
was considerably in her debt; and finally, natural feminine 
curiosity. In almost less time than it takes to tell it, there- 
fore, a highly satisfactory arrangement was arrived at, by 


232 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


which, when there was anything to hear or see going on 
“chez” Gow, Catherine should be duly notified and in- 
troduced into the closet of a room adjoining Gow’s from 
which coign of vantage every word of conversation con- 
ducted in his room could be distinctly heard. As evi- 
dence of the truth of what she had said, she now went on 
artlessly to tell Catherine a good deal of what had been said 
at the interview of the preceding evening which she had 
overheard from the very place in which she promised to 
station Catherine. From this Catherine was now in- 
formed not only of the name of Gow’s visitor, but of the 
secret he had divulged to him; and last of all, of the plot 
against a gentleman named Dunbar they were hatching 
between them. She also heard of the appointment be- 
tween the men for another meeting a few days after the 
interview just alluded to. 

It is needless to state that all this had the effect of 
throwing her into a state of the most intense excitement. 
So much so, indeed, that for a time she was rendered 
incapable of anything like deliberate action. This lasted, 
however, only for a time; and then she fully recovered 
her nerve, and began a systematic canvass of the whole 
situation. Partly from the fact that the information 
had come to her in rather a fragmentary and disjointed 
condition, and partly from its own inherent marvellousness, 
she had failed to connect the name of the real heir to Dun- 
bar’s estate with anyone in whom she was interested; the 
name itself had been very partially heard by the eaves- 
dropper, and imperfectly conveyed to her; but then there 
had been no mistake or uncertainty about Dunbar* s name; 
and to Dunbar she now determined to go, before, if pos- 
sible, Gow should be able to reach him. 

The season was winter, and the Dunbars were at their 
residence in Portland Place. Hastily arriving at the con- 
clusion that Gow, in carrying out his promise to see Dun- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


233 

bar, would probably first write to him requesting an inter- 
view, thus allowing some time to elapse between the dis- 
patching and receipt of the correspondence necessary to 
appoint a rendezvous, she determined to proceed at once 
to Portland Place, resolved to wait for the possible chance 
of meeting Dunbar in the vicinity of his own home. If 
necessary, she would go boldly to his house and ask for 
him; but, in any event, she would see him and see him 
at once; even if he were not in London and she should 
be compelled to first find his address, and then follow 
him to it. Carrying out this plan of action, she took the 
underground to the Portland Street station. There she 
alighted from the train, ascended into the street, took 
rather a despairing look out into the fog, and then set out 
upon her errand. Arriving at Portland Place, she lingered 
about the vicinity of Dunbar’s house for a while, as she 
had set her mind upon doing; and then, as she began to 
lose hope of meeting Dunbar, went to the house, rang 
the door bell and requested the servant who answered 
the summons to take her name to his master and say that 
she wished to see him upon important business. The 
man looked at her as if undecided whether to comply 
with her request; but Catherine was in no mood to be re- 
fused, and entering the reception room sat down with the 
air of a person who fully intended to wait until she had 
accomplished the object of her visit, come what might. 
The man disappeared, and soon returned with the an- 
nouncement that Mr. Dunbar would see her directly. In 
a few minutes he entered the room. He greeted his 
visitor cordially, but with evident surprise and curiosity 
to ascertain the nature of her business. She did not 
keep him long in suspense. “Mr. Dunbar/ 5 she began, 
“of course it is unnecessary to tell you that nothing 
short of the most pressing business would have caused 
me to disturb you at your home. It seems to be my fate 


234 


PATRICK DURBAR 


to be a bearer of evil tidings, but I cannot help it; and I 
am afraid I shall be compelled in your interest to warn 
you of another plot against you, and one of a much more 
serious nature than any hitherto attempted.” 

Dunbar looked alarmed but smiled as he said: “In any 
event, I can only have to thank you for the loyalty which 
prompts your coming here to warn me of any danger, 
whatever it is.” 

Catherine gave him a grateful look as if to say: “I 
knew you would receive my offices in the spirit in which 
I offered them,” and then went on : “Let me begin by ask- 
ing a question: ‘Have you heard from or seen Mr. Gow 
within the past few days V ” 

“No, I certainly have not. Why do you ask?” 

“Because, my intense desire to see you before he had 
communicated with you is the reason of my otherwise 
inexcusably ill-timed visit. I had every belief that he 
would, in the carrying out of the plot I speak of, either 
write you or call upon you. It is a great relief to my 
mind to find that up to this time he has not done so.” 

Hardly were these words out of her mouth than the 
door opened, the servant entered and placed a telegram 
in Dunbar’s hands and retired. Asking her permission to 
do so, as if she had been a duchess, he tore open the 
envelope and having hastily scanned it, handed it to Cath- 
erine to read. It ran as follows: 

“Most pressing matter in which you are vitally inter- 
ested demands that I have an interview with you at once. 
Meet me at Craven Hotel, nine this evening. S. G.” 

“I fully expected this,” said Catherine quietly, as she 
handed him back the message. “And, now,” she went 
on, “listen attentively to what I have to say; for, if I 
am not very much mistaken, the greatest crisis of your 
life is at hand. In a word, Gow, with a man named Shar- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


23 $ 

nell, whom I do not know, have found, or think they 
have, an heir under a later will than the one under which 
you inherited your estate. Some man has arrived recently 
from America with the supposed heir, whose name I have 
not accurately ascertained as yet, but which I think I 
shall be able to get at in due time. At any rate, these men, 
Gow, Sharnell and the other one who says he has dis- 
covered the true heir have hatched a plot to make you 
pay them for buying off the man they represent as the 
true heir, or of disposing of him in such a manner that 
he will never trouble you again. It appears that the 
man in question does not yet know that he is the heir. 
This is the plot; and now what is to be done? I confess 
that I am at my wits’ ends.” 

“And may I ask you how you came by this most ex- 
traordinary piece of information?” 

Catherine went on and told him with evident reluctance 
but with perfect frankness the story of her having followed 
Gow to his hiding place, and of her subsequent meeting 
with his landlady and the disclosures she had made. There 
was an air of simplicity and honesty in the way she told 
her story which was irresistible. Taken in connection 
with Gow’s telegram, a most unexpected event in itself 
under the circumstances, Dunbar could not fail to be im- 
pressed with the gravity of the crisis he appeared to be 
called upon to face. He had never from the start been 
quite able to take seriously his good fortune in coming into 
his uncle’s estate. He had become accustomed to compara- 
tive poverty by long association. To become suddenly rich 
had appeared to him the unnatural rather than the natural 
turn for his fortunes to take. Not having been born in 
the purple, he had not taken to it by adoption; and had 
never felt quite at ease in his present style of living. 
Naturally a modest, hard-working man, he had by no 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


236 

means allowed himself to be spoiled by his sudden accession 
to wealth; but, on the contrary, had often secretly re- 
gretted that he no longer had his way to make in the world, 
as he formerly had. All this being true, it was not to be 
surprised at that the possibility of the loss of his newly 
acquired wealth occasioned him no excessive grief. His 
mother and sisters were the ones who would suffer most 
by the change ; for they had adapted themselves, as women 
have a remarkable faculty for doing, to the sudden rise 
of their fortunes. As to his wife, the manner in which 
she continued to be treated by the women of his family 
would render a valid excuse for breaking off relations with 
them appear as almost cheap at the price of his financial 
downfall. With all these considerations in view, then, he 
said to Catherine who had been carefully watching his face 
for any indication of what was going on in his mind: 
“Mrs. Marley, something, I cannot explain what, tells 
me that this is not a trumped up conspiracy, but an 
actual, although I confess an unexpected turn of the wheel 
of fortune. Somehow, there has been a theatrical element 
in the affair from the beginning, which has prepared me 
for a coup-de-theatre at the finish. I am a man of simple 
tastes, and it is difficult for me to adapt them to new 
conditions. Feeling as I do, this new turn matters have 
taken does not affect me as it would another. I mean by 
that, that if I am called upon to give up the wealth I have 
enjoyed for a few years, I shall survive the shock; and, in- 
cidentally, I should not go very far out of my way to pre- 
vent it.” 

“Yes, I think I can understand your point of view; but 
that, of course, is assuming that you are to have fair play. 
You would not allow yourself to be imposed upon by a lot 
of conspirators, I hope?” 

“No, certainly not; that is, if I could help it. But let 
us look at this matter analytically: It seems to me to 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


237 

turn upon the question as to whether the claim of this 
newly found heir can be sustained by evidence, or nut. 
If it can, no one in the world would more readily abdicate 
in favor of the true heir than myself. If, on the contrary, 
there is no evidence, no one would make a much stiller 
fight. If, however, as I shrewdly suspect to be the case, 
these men have really discovered a new heir under a later 
will, and are trying to make money out of me by black- 
mail, or by leading me to suppose they will prevent the 
new heir from making his claim by the payment of a large 
sum of money, why then all I have to say is that they have 
come to the wrong market, and they will not succeed.” 

“Well then, how do you intend to meet the matter? for 
some notice must be taken of it.” 

“Certainly there must; and unless you see some reason 
for my not doing so which I have overlooked, I intend to 
keep the appointment Gow has made for us this evening at 
nine o’clock.” 

“I see no objection to that, now that you have been 
warned; and I only thank God that I was permitted to 
reach you in time to put you on your guard.” 

At this, Catherine rose to take her departure. “I will 
communicate anything new I happen to hear,” she said, 
“and you have my address in case of need. All I ask 
of you, therefore, is to stand your ground and not allow 
yourself to be victimized by these men.” 

“I promise you that I will not, and, whatever happens, 
I shall be deeply grateful to you for the interest you have 
taken in my affairs. I shall never forget it.” 

As they rose to leave the room, Dunbar noticed that the 
door leading into the hall, which he had taken pains to 
close at the beginning of the interview, was now partly 
open. The servant in leaving the room after bringing 
in the telegram had evidently, by accident or design, failed 
to close it. The matter was explained, however, by finding 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


238 

Mrs. Dunbar in the hall in such a position relatively to the 
door in question as to leave no possible doubt as to the 
fact of her having been eavesdropping. 

"What does this mean, mother?” demanded Dunbar, 
indignantly. 

"It means that I consider it an insult to your mother, 
your sisters and your wife for you to bring your female 
bachelor friends to the house where there are decent 
women. I, for one, will not put up with it.” 

Dunbar tried hard to restrain himself, but it was beyond 
his strength : "Mrs. Dunbar,” he said, trembling with in- 
dignation, "permit me to present my very good friend Mrs. 
Marley; who, at great inconvenience to herself, has come 
to warn me of an impending danger; a danger to me and 
to us all. As you treat this lady, you treat me; and I de- 
mand an instant apology for the totally uncalled for insult 
you have just put upon her. Will you make it, or not?” 

There was a tone of authority in his voice and a fire in 
his eye which brooked no denial. Added to this, possibly, 
was the influence of the warning which she herself must 
have overheard. She hesitated an instant, just long 
enough for Dunbar to say, peremptorily : "I am waiting for 
your apology,” when she suddenly appeared to see the 
matter in another light; for she said, as humbly as a 
women of her makeup could be brought to say anything: 

"Well, I — er apologize. I — er.” 

"That will do; and now be good enough to ring the 
bell for William to call a cab for Mrs. Marley.” 

This little act of submission evidently called for a 
greater effort than the apology ; but Mrs. Dunbar rendered 
it, and the visitor was shown to the door and placed in her 
cab with all the honors. 

"And now, mother,” said Dunbar, after the cab had 
driven away, the door closed and the servant had taken 
his departure,” this is as good a time as any to tell you 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


239 


that the insult you have offered to an unoffending creature 
who humiliated herself to put us on our guard against an 
impending danger, is the last straw which has broken the 
camel’s back. If there is a home left to us, after this 
matter has been sifted to the bottom, Helena and I will no 
longer share it with you. You and the girls will go your 
ways ; my wife and I will go ours. So please take notice.” 

“Of course, you don’t mean what you say, Pads. You 
wouldn’t leave us to starve ?” 

"If what I fear comes to pass, we’ll stand a fair chance 
of starving until some arrangement can be made by which 
the family can be supported. If it does not come to pass, 
there is no danger of starvation for any of us ; but my wife 
and I will have an establishment of our own in either case. 
It has been coming to this for some time, and now it has 
come; and you have only yourself to thank for it.” 

Mrs. Dunbar whimpered out a reminder of what was 
due to a mother, and then broke into an hysterical fit which 
had the effect of bringing the two young ladies to her side, 
and would have ended doubtless in a commotion of very 
considerable dimensions if Dunbar had allowed himself 
to be drawn into it ; but he had other matters to occupy his 
attention. He locked himself in his study, and going to 
the old tin despatch box in which he had found his uncle’s 
will, now took out all the papers contained in it, and began 
a careful inspection of them. At last he came to a package 
of letters, musty and yellow with age, but labeled : “Letters 
from my brother Patrick.” Upon opening this package 
evidence began to come to light and to multiply, as one by 
one he read these letters, of, first, the old misunderstanding 
between the brothers owing to money matters, then of a 
time when Patrick had begun to repay his debts to his 
brother, and, finally, a letter in which he remitted the last 
amount due him, together with a sum more than sufficient 
to pay the interest upon his entire former indebtedness. 


240 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


At the end of this letter, was a paragraph which ran as 
follows: “And now, having discharged my debt in full 
with interest, like an honest man, it would give me great 
pleasure if I could be assured from you that all our old 
misunderstandings were at an end. They certainly are as 
as far as I am concerned; and from my heart I freely 
forgive, as I hope to be forgiven.” 

The answer to this letter could hardly have proved sat- 
isfactory, and the olive branch contained in it, if accepted 
at all, had not been accepted in the spirit in which it had 
been offered ; for Patrick Dunbar wrote in a following, and 
evidently a last letter: “I wish it to be fully understood 
from this time forward that all relationship between us 
is at an end. I have not only repaid my debt to you, but I 
have humbled myself by making friendly advances which 
should have met with a different response from the one 
contained in your last letter. In saying this I am speaking 
more to your wife than to you; for I feel morally certain 
that she is, and always has been, the real stumbling block 
between us. She has a bad heart, or, rather, she has no 
heart at all; which is worse yet. She is a bom mischief- 
maker; and at her door I lay the responsibility of this 
rupture between us, and of all the consequences arising from 
it in the future; for, once having come forward and offered 
you my hand in a spirit of mutual forgiveness, I shall 
never do so again.” 

“From the tone of this letter,” Dunbar said to himself, 
“and from what I know of my uncle’s character, it is as 
clear as the noonday sun what has happened; he has re- 
voked his former will, and has made a new one cutting 
us off altogether from any succession to his estate ; and who 
could blame him? I should have done exactly the same 
thing. And now it only remains to verify this very natural 
assumption, to have the new will brought to light, and — to 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


241 


turn over all the wealth I and my family have lately en- 
joyed to the rightful heir.” 

Then it occurred to him that this could hardly be done, as 
matters stood, for the reason that a large portion of the 
estate had been dissipated in the purchase of houses and 
lands, in personal expenses of all kinds; and, in the losses 
he had incurred by the treachery of his friends. This 
thought gave him the greatest possible uneasiness. “This 
means not only poverty for me,” he said, “it means bank- 
ruptcy, ruin and disgrace!” 

He sat at his desk, his head resting on his hands, buried 
in thought. Suddenly he heard a light footstep in the 
passage, and then a light tap at the door. He rose from 
his seat went to the door and opening it found Helena 
standing before him. “May I come in?” she asked. 

“Of course you may, my dear. I was on the point of 
coming to you. I have sorry news for you, Helena. I’m 
afraid you’ve not married a rich man, after all !” 

“After all what, dear? Did I ever set out to marry a 
rich man? No, I set my cap, if you like, for the dearest 
and kindest man in the world ; and I succeeded, thank God, 
in winning him. Riches had nothing whatever to do with 
it.” 

“Your saying that makes it much easier than it would 
otherwise be to tell you what has happened, my dear child. 
I have received information that leads me to believe that 
my uncle made another will setting aside the one under 
which I inherited his property. In which case, I am afraid 
I shall be not much better than a pauper, Helena. The 
strange part of it is that, except for you and our child, 
I seem to care so little about it. The thing that causes me 
anxiety is that I am afraid a large part of the estate can 
never be turned over to the rightful owner for the simple 
reason that it has been dissipated. I feel sure I can always 
support you and little Pads; but, to be heavily in debt, as 


16 


242 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


well as poor, is rather a hard case any way you look at it.” 

“I have some property which you know is at your dis- 
posal, my dear.” 

“Yes, Helena, but that must remain yours. I have no 
right nor wish to touch it; thanking you from the bottom 
of my heart, for all that.” 

“Well, dear old boy, cheer up. In the first place, your 
information may not be correct. In the second, there may 
be a dozen compensations about this affair which we little 
think of now.” 

“How do my mother and sisters take the news?” 

“Well, they are pretty well upset, but they either do not 
or will not believe it possible for it to be true. Your mother 
overheard enough of the conversation between you and 
the bearer of the news, it appears, to thoroughly frighten 
her ; but she fails to realize, I fear, what it means to lose a 
large fortune. I mean by that, how easy it is, sometimes, 
to lose one.” 

“A thing you do know, my poor child!” 

“Ah, yes; but in my case I won so much more than I 
lost that it is not a fair comparison.” 

“Do you think then you could stand it to lose another 
one ?” 

“Most assuredly I could. As long as they can’t take 
away from me my little and my big Pads; they may have 
the rest, and welcome.” 

“Well, my love, you put heart into me to face the ordeal, 
whatever it is. God bless you for it.” 

The dinner was by no means a cheerful feast that even- 
ing. Each and every member of the family seemed oc- 
cupied with his or her thoughts, and little was said. 
Dunbar looked about him and silently contrasted all the 
evidences of wealth by which he was surrounded with the 
frugality of their former lives, and that which now the 
future held in store for them. It was a bitter pill to 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


243 


swallow, but the bitterest part almost was the thought that 
his mother, who would undoubtedly be the one to feel the 
impending downfall of their fortunes most, was the very 
one who had been the cause of it, by reason of her tactless 
and heartless conduct. It would have been a difficult task 
for him to have forgiven her before this came to his knowl- 
edge; it would be well nigh impossible now. 

Later in the evening Dunbar set out to keep the appoint- 
ment asked for by Gow. It had been raining, and the fog 
was thick and heavy upon the town ; but now the rain had 
changed to snow, and the searching cold of an English 
winters night began to get into his very bones as he walked 
along. He had denied himself the comfort of a cab, as 
being now unsuited to his changed prospects in life. 
Between the fog and the snow, locomotion was difficult ; and 
a drearier sight was scarcely to be imagined, from the stand- 
point of many a homeless wanderer he saw in the streets 
as he passed. At last he reached Trafalgar Square and the 
Strand, and was about to turn into Craven Street, intend- 
ing to enter the hotel, when a shabbily dressed man whose 
face was concealed by a slouch hat suddenly loomed up out 
of the fog and approached him. “Would you spare a few 
coppers for a poor man, sir ?” he said, holding out his hand ; 
and then in a lower voice, “Don’t recognize me, but lead 
the way to the foot of the street, and I’ll follow you.” 

It was Gow ; but Dunbar was only able to recognize him 
by his voice and manner. All semblance to the man he 
had once known was totally obliterated. Dunbar, as 
requested, now passed the Craven Hotel without stopping 
and followed the street to its lower end, where it nearly ap- 
proaches the river. It is an out of the way place at any 
time, but on a foggy night it is as lonely as a churchyard. 
Here Gow quickened his pace and overtook his friend, 
saying : “This is no place for us to talk, Dunbar. There’s 
a little eating house under Charing Cross Station just 


244 


PATRICK DURBAR 


round the corner, where we can sit down and you can pay 
for my supper, if you like, for I’ve had none. Follow 
me.” 

Gow now took the lead and turned into Villiers Street, 
from which to the street next to it towards the east there 
is a long vaulted passage directly under Charing Cross 
Station. Into this passage Gow now turned, Dunbar 
following. There was a chilly draught of air in the pas- 
sage, and it was bitter cold; but Dunbar saw on either 
side of the long corridor poor fellows huddled up in all 
positions trying to snatch a few moments’ sleep in a place 
where at least the snow could not get at them. He shud- 
dered at the thought of what real poverty might mean. 
Here were men already at the bottom of the almost bottom- 
less pit of human misery and despair. His own feet had, 
by the revelations that day had brought to light, been 
placed upon a lower rung in the ladder which led to these 
depths. How should he avoid taking the next lower, and 
the next, and the next, until he too should arrive at the 
bottom? It was a dreadful thought. The cold relentless 
wind blew in his face bearing the foul odors of damp 
clothing and the body stenches of the miserable beings, 
who, possibly, were thanking God in their hearts that they 
had a shelter of some kind over their heads, poor as it 
was; and praying that they might not be disturbed in it. 
It appears to be the very last consolation left to suffering 
humanity, the thought that “it might be worse.” 

At last, leaving the passage, Gow led the way to one of 
the cheaper class of eating houses that are to be found 
under the arches of the Charing Cross Station, into which 
they entered, and Gow still leading the way, took seats at 
the extreme end of the room. Here Gow, with a sigh 
of genuine relief, sat down, shook the snow from his cloth- 
ing, removed his hat, which he placed under his seat, and, 
for the first time gave Dunbar an opportunity to see his 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


245 

face. He had allowed his beard to grow, and his face 
was thin and careworn. He had a hunted look about him, 
and Dunbar noticed that he had selected the seat which 
made it possible for him to watch the door leading into 
the street. 

“It was good of you, Dunbar, ” Gow began, “to come 
out in such a night as this ; but I couldn’t come to you. 
You see, I’m followed — er, I mean since I’ve lost my 
money, I feel all the time as if I were followed. You 
see, in a business like mine one makes enemies. It’s im- 
possible to avoid it. And now, if you like, you may order 
a little supper and something to drink; for the story I’ve 
to tell is a rather long one, and — er, well, rather a dry 
one.” 

Gow smiled in a sickly way at his little pleasantry, as 
a poor relation might do at a rich man’s table. All the 
old self assurance had left him long ago. It was pitiful, 
the change. Dunbar would have been in a better position 
to see both the pathos and the servility of it, had his 
mind not been disturbed by a presentiment of evil which 
it was impossible for him to shake off. He mechanically 
ordered supper, as Gow had requested, and then waited 
patiently for the waiter to retire and for his companion 
to begin his story. He had been curious to see how Gow 
would treat the little matter of the forgery, and was both 
pleased and amused that he had evidently determined to 
ignore it altogether. Dunbar having pocketed his loss 
saw nothing to be gained by bringing up the subject for 
discussion now, while much might be lost by either fright- 
ening or goading his treacherous friend into silence con- 
cerning a matter which was much more vital to him. So 
he quietly waited for Gow to take the edge off his appetite 
for both meat and drink. The poor fellow in truth went 
to work at the coarse viands with a gusto suggestive of 
a long fast. Finally, he settled back in his chair with 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


246 

his eye, however, upon the unfinished repast, much as a 
hungry dog would watch a bone destined to provide a 
second meal, and began: 

“Dunbar, you’ve always been a decent fellow, and, more 
than that, you’ve always been good to me. For this rea- 
son, I’m going to tell you a lot of things I have lately 
heard about your affairs just as I heard them. In fact, 
I’m going to treat you just as I should wish you to treat 
me, were our positions reversed. Some people would try 
to make capital out of the secret I have come in posses- 
sion of. 1 am not one of that kind. Of course, I am 
needy at present, very needy ; and, if, after you have heard 
my story, you feel the service I have rendered you is, 
well, worth something handsome, I shan’t refuse it, of 
course. I think I have it in my power to save you from 
a very serious danger.” 

Here he looked at Dunbar, as if to see how his tactics 
were working, up to date; but Dunbar, if he were moved, 
certainly showed no outward indications of it. Gow went 
on: 

“There is a man I have been dealing with, a very shrewd 
fellow, though not in our set at all, you understand, who 
in some way has got hold of another man recently re- 
turned from the States, who, while in the States ran 
against, in the most accidental manner possible, still a 
third man who is the undoubted heir of your uncle, the 
late Patrick Dunbar. How, strange and improbable as 
this all may appear, and incredulous as you may be, there 
is an air of truth about the story which to me, at least, 
is most convincing. Upon the principle of selecting the 
less improbable of two theories, it would be much less 
difficult to believe the story as it comes to me, than to 
believe that the man who told it could by any possibility 
have invented it. You see, Dunbar, knowing as I do, 
a good deal about the will under which you inherited, I 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


247 


am in a position to judge fairly well of the truth or 
falsity of the story I have heard; and, although it pains 
me on your account, I feel bound to tell you that I think 
it is a genuine case of a later will.” 

Gow then went on to repeat all the details he had gath- 
ered from Sharnell, many of which were new to Dunbar, 
some of which were not; but all of which served to fully 
establish the verities of his uncle’s letters which he had 
so recently read. All that remained now, as far as he 
could see, was to have the actual will, the new one, pro- 
duced, as a preliminary formality to his handing over 
the great fortune he had come into. He sat listening 
to what his former friend had to say much as a criminal 
in the dock would listen to the foreman of the jury an- 
nouncing the verdict which was to cause him to end his 
days in a prison. The verdict was against him; and all 
that could be said of it was that it was not entirely un- 
expected. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


“And now,” said Gow, in coming to the end of his story, 
“What’s to be done? Of course we don’t propose to al- 
low this young man to come into an estate of which he 
does not even know the existence. It will cost money, 
but it is worth it, it seems to me, to enable Sharnell to 
deal with the case; but he is just the man to do it. A 
sea-trip could be arranged for this young Mr. Dillon, or 
whatever his name is, for the good of his health, of course; 
but which would land him in a part of the world from 
which he would not be likely to return for a very long 
time.” 

“I shall be a party to no such proceedings, Gow; and 
you insult me by even suggesting them to me. Just so 
soon as this man proves to me that he is the true heir, 
just so soon shall I turn the estate over to him. Where is 
he to be found?” 

“I don’t know, I’m glad to say; for, not knowing, I 
can’t tell you. Sharnell would tell me neither his ad- 
dress nor the name of the man who discovered him. They 
are both in London, and that’s all I know about it.” 

“Well, Gow, you have my answer. In addition, you 
may tell your friend Sharnell, if you like, that I shall 
consider it a personal favor if he would put me in touch 
with the newly discovered heir with a view to having the 
matter settled and over with as speedily as possible. I 
hate suspense, and I should also hate to keep an honest 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


249 

man out of his just dues for a single moment longer than 
it was necessary for him to prove his claim.” 

A look of profound disappointment not unmixed with 
contempt came over Govt’s face as he heard Dunbar’s an- 
swer. Here was his last chance slipping from him. It 
was a serious blow to him, situated as he was. 

“Do I then understand you to mean what you say in 
rejecting our services, Sharnell’s and mine, in saving you 
from this danger, Dunbar? Think of it well before you 
answer. It is no slight matter to give up such an inheri- 
tance as yours to an unknown stranger who is not even 
aware of his claim upon it, and is not seeking to know. 
I suppose you would be fool enough to go and tell him 
all about it if you knew where to find him ?” 

“I certainly should; and, more than that, if I could 
feel that I was not spending another man’s money, I 
would offer you a larger sum to put me in communica- 
tion with this newly discovered heir than I would to get 
him out of the way where he cannot communicate with 
me.” 

“Then you would admit his claim without a contest, 
and just ask him to come and strip you and your family 
of house and home, as if you were tired of them and 
wanted to get quit of them? You are mad, Dunbar. For 
God’s sake, pull yourself together and put up the best 
fight you can. Once in the lawyers’ hands, you could hold 
the estate for many a long year to come. The man might 
die in the meantime, or a dozen things might happen.” 

“I’m built upon different lines from you, Gow; and 
there’s not the slightest chance of your changing me to 
your way of thinking; so don’t waste your time in trying. 
You know my address. If you have anything to say to 
me write or wire me, and I will meet you if necessary; 
but not for any other purpose, mark you, than to assist in 


250 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


putting this young man in possession of his own. And 
now, good-night.” 

Saying which, Dunbar, after paying the waiter, rose to 
take his departure. Gow was so taken aback by this sud- 
den and uncompromising action of his friend, that he 
forgot even to ask him for a few sovereigns to go on with ; 
an omission which caused him the greatest possible re- 
morse after it was too late to remedy it. After Dunbar 
had gone, Gow lighted his pipe and sat awhile ruminating. 
“A pretty mess Fve made of this affair, so far,” he said 
to himself. ‘And now what’s to be done Shamell will 
be furious, and will be for breaking with me altogether; 
and I can’t blame him if he does. There must be some 
way of managing this affair. If money can’t be had out 
of this fool Dunbar, it must be had out of the other fellow; 
that’s all.” 

Consoling himself with this and other reflections, Gow 
sat smoking his pipe until warned by the proprietor of the 
place that it was time to close for the night, and then he 
rose, knocked the ashes from his pipe, put on his hat, pull- 
ing it well down over his eyes, and finally sallied forth in 
the snow storm. 

Dunbar, partly from curiosity, and partly from a fel- 
low-feeling for the poor fellows he had seen lying about in 
the passage under the station, re-entered it on his way home 
instead of following the street he was upon to the Strand. 
He found the men just as he had left them, some half 
reclining, some lying prostrate upon the damp pavement 
of the place, some partly covered with old newspapers to 
keep out the cold; but all miserable to a degree which 
would move the hardest heart. Not being able to do for 
all, he selected one whom he saw to be awake and shivering 
with the cold, and bending over him he slipped a few sil- 
ver pieces into his hand, at the same time in a kindly voice 
advising him to try and find a more hospitable shelter for 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


251 

the remainder of the night. Then, bitterly regretting that 
he could not do as well for all the poor wretches he saw 
about, he passed along and out into Villiers Street. He 
had proceeded only a short distance when he heard someone 
approaching him from behind. He turned and saw it was 
the man to whom he had given the money in the pas- 
sage. He stopped to allow the man to overtake him. “You 
have made a mistake, sir, Fin afraid,” he said, holding out 
his hand with the silver pieces in it. “You have given me 
several half crowns mistaking them for pennies, I sup- 
pose.” 

Dunbar looked at the poor fellow in astonishment. Here 
was a man in as evil a case as a human creature could well 
be in and still live; cold, hungry, poorly clad, a homeless 
wanderer of the streets of a great city, but still not only 
honest, but in the finest sense a gentleman. “So far from 
making a mistake, my friend,” he said, “my only regret 
was and is that I cannot do more for you. Keep your 
money, and may God send you better fortunes!” 

The man’s answer was to come nearer, and, taking Dun- 
bar’s hand in both his own to kiss it reverently, as if it 
had been a saint’s ; and, as Dunbar passed along, the words, 
“May God bless you!” reached his ear. Arrived at his 
home, our hero let himself in with his slip-key. The house- 
hold had retired for the night, and the place was as silent 
as a tomb. He found his wife and child peacefully sleep- 
ing, and he kissed them gently without awakening them. 
For hours that night he lay awake thinking how little in 
reality his present position differed from that of the starv- 
ing, shivering wretches he had seen sleeping in the street. 
To be sure, for the time being there were thick brick and 
stone walls between him and the wintry blasts, there was 
warmth and comfort and sympathy and love; but what 
was it that held those walls together, that kept the roof 
over his head, that warmed him, fed him, clothed him, 


252 


PATRICK DURBAR 


that even in a large measure created the love of his family, 
the respect of his servants, the friendship of his friends? 
Humiliating as it was, the answer to his question was 
“money.” The few shillings he had given the homeless 
wanderer of the street had made all the difference be- 
tween perhaps his freezing to death, and of passing the 
night in a comfortable bed. In a few days or weeks or 
months, he might be looking backward upon his present 
luxurious surroundings as hopelessly as if they had never 
existed. So much does the possession of money stand for 
in this world of ours, say what you will! 

At breakfast the next morning, Dunbar announced to 
his family the changed condition of their fortunes. As 
he expected to be, he was assailed by everyone but his 
wife by protests such as Gow had uttered the evening be- 
fore. 

“I never heard of such an absurd proceeding in my 
life,” his mother said, angrily. “The audacity of some 
adventurer from the land of adventurers coming here to 
drive a highly respectable family like ours from their an- 
cestral home. Some of these Yankees will come over and 
try to dispossess the Queen from Buckingham Palace or 
Windsor, one of these days! I, for one, will never be 
turned out into the streets to starve by people I despise as 
I do these low-born creatures, even if you, Pads, do think 
so much of them. I will never yield an inch to them, 
never, never!” 

“And yet our ‘ancestral home’ as you are pleased to call 
it, came from these very Yankees you despise,” said Dun- 
bar, looking at his wife to see how she was bearing up 
under the attack upon her country people. 

“And, for that reason, you, I suppose, will be perfectly 
satisfied to allow the first one of these — well, Americans, 
that comes along, to take our home from us and make us 
beggars. 1 am really ashamed of you, Pads ; ashamed that 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


253 

a son of mine with British blood in his veins should offer 
to surrender to the enemy even before he is attacked.” 

“And yet you highly approved of the Murphys sur- 
rendering without a fight, when the positions were reversed, 
and we were the attacking party and they were behind the 
entrenchments.” 

“That was a different case altogether,” said Mrs. Dim- 
bar, contemptuously. “These people are not sure of their 
rights, as you say yourself; whereas we were sure of ours.” 

“The Murphys could have given us years of waiting and 
no end of trouble and expense before ever we had estab- 
lished a claim which as it turns out is not a tenable one, 
after all; but they nobly and generously saved us all this; 
and this is the thanks they get for it! As far as I am 
concerned, and I am glad to say Helena thinks as I do, we 
shall try to be as honorable and as honest as she and her 
mother were. My chief regret is, that once having made 
such a sacrifice, the poor child should be called upon to 
make another.” 

“You must do as you please, Pads; but I give you warn- 
ing that your sisters and I will make the bitterest and long- 
est fight we can before ever we give up one penny of our 
interest in the estate. My own pride and my love for my 
children will not admit of my doing otherwise. We shall 
engage the best legal talent we can find, and nothing you 
can say will change our purpose. To think of a gentle- 
woman in my position and at my time of life being turned 
out into the streets. Its preposterous; and you are un- 
worthy the name you inherited to put up with it for an in- 
stant !” 

Dunbar saw that there was nothing to be gained by a 
further discussion of the matter; but, having relieved 
his mind of the responsibility of giving his family at 
large due notice of the impending danger, set himself to 
work to prepare his particular branch of it for a crisis 


254 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


which he now felt he had every reason to regard as in- 
evitable. Not deeming it expedient to make any very 
visible reduction in their style of living until the ex- 
pected event had developed beyond its present stage, 
he confined his efforts to finding employment which would 
support his family after its arrival. As there are always 
not only positions but many other good things in the world 
going a begging for persons who are supposed not to want 
them, he easily found what he was looking for. In fact 
he only had to intimate to his former employer in the 
city that he would like a place, when one was made for 
him directly. This provided him with an income of three 
hundred pounds; upon which he knew he could hardly 
starve. Then he and Helena together looked about for a 
small house in the suburbs, suited to a family of limited 
means, and having found one in Wandsworth, Dunbar 
rented it and furnished it in the simplest manner possi- 
ble but quite suitably to their wants. His wife being 
thoroughly in sympathy with the movement, now joined 
him in cutting down their share of the expenses of the 
household to the minimum; and, in a word, they placed 
themselves in marching order to move directly upon hear- 
ing the word of command. His mother and sisters, on the 
contrary, took no more notice of the warning of trouble 
ahead than to grumble at the insolence of the whole Yankee 
nation, and more particularly that portion of it which had 
evidently been brought into the world by the Almighty for 
the express purpose of annoying them. In fact, they 
seemed to take a malicious delight in shocking Dunbar 
and his wife by their senseless and unnecessary expendi- 
ture of money. Adding all this to the already strained re- 
lations of the family, the home life of the Dunbars was far 
from pleasant ; and our hero and his wife anticipated almost 
with pleasure, rather than the reverse, the day when the 
crash should come and be over with. 


PATRICK DURBAR 


255 

The evening of the day after his interview with Dunbar, 
Gow prepared himself for the ordeal of a visit from Shar- 
nell; which he well knew could hardly fail of being a dis- 
agreeable one. The latter arrived shortly after nightfall, 
and was immediately admitted and shown to Gow’s room; 
after which service his landlady, true to her promise, 
slipped across the street to notify Mrs. Marley. In a few 
moments, as a result of this manoeuvre, that lady was 
safely ensconced in a place where she could easily over- 
hear all that was said in Gow’s room, although she could 
not see the speakers. 

“And so Dunbar turned us down, did he?” said Shar- 
nell. 

“Yes, and not only that, but gave us a pretty good piece 
of his mind for having the cheek to approach him with 
any proposition of the kind I made him.” 

“Um, and you think he meant it?” 

“Knowing the man as I do, I have no doubt about it.” 

“He’s a good deal of a damned fool, I should say. How 
does it strike you?” 

“I’m of your opinion, and I frankly told him so; but 
what good did that do ? Money’s what we’re after, and no 
money will we get from Dunbar. He’s as stubborn as a 
mule, and he thinks that because the estate was handed 
over to him without a struggle, it’s his duty to hand it 
over to the first man who comes along to claim it. It will 
become a regular football in time, this Dunbar estate. And 
now what’s to be done ?” 

“Before we go into that question, I want to ask you 
whether or no there could not be some way devised by 
which Dunbar could be induced to change his mind ? Did 
you dwell sufficiently, do you think, upon the strong points 
of the case; the fact, for instance, that this young man, 
this Dillon, doesn’t even know that he is the heir? Hello, 
what’s that?” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


256 

The latter inquiry was occasioned by a slight sound, pro- 
ceeding from a closet, as if a person had stirred. Gow im- 
mediately went to the place and carefully inspected it, but 
found nothing to arouse any suspicion that a listener was 
about. 

“Nothing much, I should say,” he said, evidently sat- 
isfied. “Possibly my landlady messing about in the next 
room. She couldn’t have much object in listening to what 
we have to say; and she’s rather deaf, into the bargain, 
judging from the manner in which she often fails to respond 
to my requests. And now to answer your last question: 
Dunbar is absolutely of no good to us. In fact, the more I 
put the matter to him in the light you and I both see it in, 
the angrier he got. He considers himself a sort of trus- 
tee, a locum tenens for the newly discovered heir; and 
says he would, if the money was his, give more to the man 
who would introduce him to the man who is ready to rob 
him of his estate, than to the one who would be instru- 
mental in sending him on a trip to the South Sea Islands, 
for instance, or to Kingdom come. There’s nothing to be 
done with him, and it’s a complete waste of time to try. 
Now, having got as far as this, what’s your idea as to our 
next move? One thing is sure; and that is, this chance 
must not be allowed to slip through our fingers. I, for 
one, am far too near the workhouse for that.” 

“Well, then, matters being as you state them, although 
I can’t imagine how a man of your fertility of resource 
could make such a poor fist of a job as you have made of 
this, I will go a little farther than I went the last time 
I saw you and tell you certain things ; but only on one con- 
dition, and that is that you are to thoroughly understand 
that as sure as my name is what it is, I will follow you 
to the ends of the earth until I kill you, if you in any way 
betray my confidence or take advantage of it to your own 
profit, exclusive of me. I have discovered this plant, and 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


257 

by Gad, Fll have my corner, my share of the spoils, or Fll 
make the man who robs me of it wish he’d never been 
born. Do you fully appreciate this? There’s no earthly 
good in making you swear, or even promise fidelity, because 
nothing but fear can influence such a white-livered scoun- 
drel as you. So let’s get to business.” 

“That’s what I’m waiting for,” responded Gow, moodily. 
“All this theatrical talk of yours doesn’t count for much, 
Sharnell ; for, in the first place, no one wants to rob you of 
your share of either the profit or the credit of this affair; 
and, in the second, I couldn’t, if I were so disposed. So 
let’s get on.” 

“Well, I refused to tell you the name of the man who 
discovered Dillon, the other evening, and also to tell you 
where both of them were to be found in London. I shall 
now, in carrying out the alternative plan I have in view, 
Dunbar having failed us, be compelled either to trust you 
with my full confidence, or to withdraw it, and manage the 
matter myself. So I have decided upon trusting you; not 
because I want to, but because to get another man into the 
game just now would only be to spread the knowledge of 
a matter which has gone already too far. So, here goes: 
The man who discovered Dillon, the true heir to the Dun- 
bar estate, in the States is none other than our old friend 
Dobson; and they, he and young Dillon, are both staying 
at the Manchester Hotel, Aldersgate. Dobson is there 
under the name of ‘Ferguson’ ; and now you know as much 
as I do.” 

Here followed a somewhat prolonged pause in the con- 
versation, as if the speaker was allowing his listener time 
in which to overcome the astonishment incident to a 
startling announcement, and to readjust his faculties to a 
new condition of affairs. At last Gow said : “You are sure 
of this, Sharnell? It seems to me a hardly credible piece 
of news that Dobson should return to London, as matters 


17 


258 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


stand between him and Dunbar. Have you actually seen 
him, or do you get this report on hearsay?” 

“You fool, did you ever know Orlando Sharnell to make 
a statement when important interests were at stake that he 
couldn’t back up ? I’ve seen the man, I tell you, and have 
had a long interview with him. You can see him, if you 
like, by strolling into his hotel; only I advise you not to 
go there from mere curiosity, or until you have come to a 
definite understanding as to the best course to pursue. 
Dobson, like yourself, is just now under a very heavy 
cloud and is suspicious. If he were to see a bird of ill 
omen like you hanging about, he might take flight; and, 
if he did, you can mark my words, he wouldn’t leave his 
young American friend behind him to fall into the hands 
of the Philistines; no fear.” 

“And so you say this young Dillon, or whatever is his 
name, doesn’t even know of his being the heir to the Dun- 
bar estate.” 

“Ho; according to Dobson, the young man was adopted 
in early life by Dunbar senior, and has already come into 
all of his estate he knows to exist. He is in London, so 
Dobson says, for the purpose of looking up some lost rela- 
tive, a sister, I believe. Now, what we want to do, as far 
as 1 can see, is to either frighten Dobson out of London, 
arranging matters in such a manner as to have him leave 
Dillon behind him; or, if this turns out to be impracticable, 
to get Dillon away from him in some way. Once we have 
Dillon under our control and away from Dobson, we can 
breathe freely. We can then either wait for Dunbar to 
come round to our way of thinking, or we can withhold 
the knowledge of his good fortune from Dillon until we 
have in some way managed to make a bargain with him by 
which we shall be well paid for our trouble when we see 
fit to enable him to take possession of his estate. How 
does this plan strike you?” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


259 


“It’s all right, if it can be carried out; but can it? Un- 
less you took actual physical possession of this young man, 
and forcibly imprisoned him, all of which is a rather large 
contract, to say nothing of the danger attaching to it, 
how are we to keep him under our control, once we get 
him there?” 

“All that’s true enough; but something’s got to be done, 
or we lose the opportunity of our lives. The question is, 
is it worth the risk? and I’ve made up my mind it is. We 
could catch this wild young American eagle easily enough, 
if we only knew what to do with him after he was caught. 
I should like to avoid using force, naturally; but, by God, 
Gow, if we have to even make away with this chap, it shan’t 
stand as an obstacle to my getting my share of all that’s 
coming to the man who can handle this affair successfully. 
Now, what do you say?” 

“I confess I don’t like the idea of employing force, Shar- 
nell, as I’m in trouble enough already and I don’t want 
any more. Let me see, why wouldn’t it be a good plan to 
lure this young chap into a place where we could talk 
matters over with him, and then in some way manage to 
convince him that Dobson is not the man at all for him 
to tie up to?” 

“The very thing,” cried Sharnell, excitedly, “we could 
point out to him that Dobson, being afraid of the police, 
is in no position to look after his interests, as he cannot 
move about London freely; and for other reasons. By 
George, I’ve got it ! We’ll tell him we’ll find his sister for 
him if he’ll put himself under our charge. The very 
thing. Why didn’t we think of that before? Then, in 
addition to this, after we once get possession of the young 
fool, we can frighten Dobson into going over to Paris, or 
somewhere else, until the danger is over. In the meantime 
we’ll make a bargain with Dillon, or, by God, we’ll know 
the reason why.” 


26 o 


PATRICK DURBAR 


“Well, I don’t see why this isn’t the way out of the 
difficulty, Sharnell; and now, how to get the young man’s 
ear; and if we persuade him to come with us, where shall 
we keep him until all danger of Dobson’s retaking him 
from us is past?” 

“It’s easy enough to have a talk with him, for I have 
his description and I can easily send a man to him whom 
I can trust to do the talking. The real trouble is to find 
a place in which to keep him; a safe place.” 

“Why not take him to your own house?” 

“No, I couldn’t do that for many reasons. I have it, 
why not bring him here to this house? You could take 
care of him and keep him from wandering about too much, 
for the reason that you can’t wander very much yourself, 
except after dark. Why isn’t this a good idea?” 

Gow didn’t answer for a moment. Finally he said: “I 
was thinking it all over and I don’t see why that couldn’t 
be done. There is a room on this floor adjoining mine. 
It’s not much of a room, or house, or quarter of the town 
for a swell to live in, to be sure; but we can tell him it’s 
perhaps the likeliest place to find a lost relative in; and 
I’m blowed if I don’t think it really is. Most lost peo- 
ple in London drift sooner or later into the east end, 
You know that as well as I do.” 

“Not at all a bad idea; Gow, and by George, we’ll carry 
it out. Only, remember, at the least sign of treachery on 
your part, I’ll kill you as I would a dog. Kill you, or give 
you up to the police, either one or the other; so don’t try 
to play any tricks with me.” 

“If you have any fears of tricks, Sharnell, don’t have 
anything to do with the plan. Manage it yourself, and 
take all the spoils. I can’t prevent you. It’s your scheme, 
not mine. But, if you do enter into the plan, for God’s 
sake, give over this big talk of what you’ll do. It’s un- 
worthy of business men like us.” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


261 

With this, and an arrangement between them far an- 
other meeting, together with an understanding that Gow 
should secure the room adjoining his own for Dillon’s oc- 
cupancy, the meeting adjourned; and Sharnell took his de- 
parture. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


“Well, and how do you like London?” asked Dobson of 
young Dillon. They were sitting in the coffee room of 
the Manchester Hotel before a snug coal fire imbibing the 
regulation Scotch and water, and pulling away at the 
equally orthodox pipe. 

“If I could see London, I think I should be interested, 
and might in time learn to like the place; but Pve been 
here some two weeks and I haven’t begun to see it yet,” 
replied Dillon. 

“Yes, it’s been a little foggy, I admit; but we haven’t 
had a genuine black fog yet. Wait till you see a black’un, 
before you say much about fogs.” 

“That’s what they all say, and I suppose I shall have 
to wait; but how are matters going on, Mr. Ferguson; 
isn’t it about time for us to get about the business that 
brought us to London?” 

Ferguson’s or Dobson’s answer was preceded by a con- 
temptuous look, as if to say, “well, you are young, to be 
sure !” but he went on aloud : 

“My young friend, you said just now that you have not 
yet seen London; which is perfectly true. You haven't 
seen it. When you have seen it, you will begin to realize 
what a vast place it is, and how very small an atom one 
single human being is amongst the millions of people 
about. Then again, there is a way to go to work in every 
kind of business which is the proper way, while all others 
are the improper ones. Just look out into that street. It 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


2 63 

is broad daylight, but you can hardly distinguish the form 
of a man half a dozen paces off, let alone recognizing him. 
What kind of a chance would you have, I ask you, of ever 
finding a person you were looking for in such a labyrinth 
of streets as you find in London, crowded as they are with 
human beings, transient and resident, and all enveloped in 
such a pall as that fog? When it gets so thick that long- 
shoremen, accustomed for years to their surroundings, ac- 
tually walk off the wharves into the river, and cab horses 
find themselves in areas, and never know how they came 
there, why you could call that a fog.” 

“Yes, Fve heard about ’em ever since I’ve been in Lon- 
don; but I’m naturally, I suppose, anxious about my sis- 
ter. The more I see of London, the more I appreciate the 
horror, the helplessness of a person’s being poor in the 
place. What should I, strong, young fellow that I am, do 
in that foggy street, penniless? It would be much worse 
for a woman delicately nurtured as my sister has been. 
I somehow feel degraded in sitting here by a comfortable 
fire, with every want supplied, when I think that that poor 
girl may be suffering from want and loneliness in such a 
place as this.” 

“Yes, I agree with you; but what can be done to hasten 
matters? One of the most adroit men for such a job in 
London is doing the preliminary work necessary for ulti- 
mate success. If you would feel any better for going out 
to assist him in his work, by all means do so; but, let me 
warn you that we are very near the east end here in this 
hotel, and the east end abounds in very dangerous places 
and people, as you may have heard. In such a fog as this, a 
person unfamiliar with London, might be easily decoyed 
into some dark alleyway, robbed, killed and his body 
thrown into the river, before ever he knew where he was. 
So, take my word for it that all is being done that can 
be done, and let well enough alone !” 


264 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


Saying which, Mr. Dobson clinched his warning by giv- 
ing his young friend rather a stem look, took a sip of 
whisky and water, and began to read his edition of the 
Evening Globe. The afternoon wore on, and Dillon, left 
to himself, became more and more restless and uncomfort- 
able. In the first place, the fog which had all day been 
several degrees heavier than any he had seen since his 
arrival in London, now' began to thicken up very percepti- 
bly, until, as six o’clock came round, when some millions 
of housewives begin to mend their fires to prepare the 
evening meal, it became so opaque as to fully justify any- 
thing Dillon had heard said about it. He dined with his 
friend Dobson in the coffee room at about half-past six, 
and after dinner before settling down before the soft coal 
fire for a smoke, took a look out into the street. It was 
now so dark and so thick that a man could hardly see his 
hand before his face. The street lights themselves could 
only be seen a few feet away, and then looked like dull, 
luminous balls trying to face their way through a black- 
ness too intense to be described. All street traffic had 
practically come to an end. A few cabs were to be seen 
when directly upon you, but the drivers, instead of driving , 
were leading their horses. A number of enterprising small 
boys about had improvised torches of several kinds, and 
were doing an active business in offering to escort timid 
old ladies and feeble old men to places of safety. Added 
to the intense gloom, it was bitterly cold. Taken for all 
and all, it was a revelation to young Dillon, as he stood 
in the doorway of his hotel and looked out upon the scene. 
“What a night,” he said to himself, “to be about in, in 
any case; but without money, or friends, or a roof over 
your head; could anything be more pitiable?” 

He returned to the coffee room; more from force of 
habit than from choice, ordered some whisky and water, 
lighted his pipe, and settled himself into a chair. Dobson 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


265 

had already made his arrangements for the evening, and 
with his newspaper over his face, a half emptied glass on 
the table at his side, was taking an after-dinner-nap, as 
was his wont. There were no other guests in the room, and, 
if there had been, it is doubtful whether the etiquette of 
the coffee room would have permitted any intercourse be- 
tween them; all that kind of thing being reserved for 
the less aristocratic but far more cheerful Commercial 
room, in the old-fashioned English hotels. The combined 
result of all these conditions was to make Dillon still more 
uneasy. He frequently rose from his chair and looked out 
into the street to see how the fog was progressing. It 
seemed to possess a weird fascination for him, although at 
the same time to suggest a feeling of doubt and dread, 
as if he heard a familiar voice calling to him from out its 
mysterious depths for help. 

“By George,” he said to himself, “I wonder what it 
would feel like to be lost in the streets of London on such 
a night as this !” 

He took a look at his sleeping companion, as if hesita- 
ting to waken him. It is perhaps superfluous to say that, 
owing to the difference in their ages and the relationship 
which existed between them, Dillon rather stood in awe of 
Dobson. In fact, Dobson had intended it should be so 
from the first. Dillon was just now possessed with an al- 
most uncontrollable desire to go out alone into the wilder- 
ness of streets he knew to exist about him in search of a 
new sensation, perhaps, or in response to the call he had 
heard ringing in his ears. At last, seeing no immediate 
probability of his friend’s awakening, he took an envelope 
from the writing table and writing upon it: “Feeling 
rather restless, gone for a walk.” he laid it on the table 
near Dobson in such a position as to insure its being seen 
upon his return from the land of dreams, and left the room. 
Then, going to his sleeping apartment, he put on a rough 


266 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


pea-jacket, drew a slouch hat over his head, took a stout 
stick in his hand, descended the stairs, passed through 
the door of the hotel, and in a moment was on the street 
and lost in the fog. Which way he went will probably never 
be known. Being absolutely unacquainted with the streets 
of London, one way answered his purpose quite as well as 
another. One thing, however, was certain, and that was 
that he had not proceeded a hundred paces from his hotel 
before he was so completely lost, relatively to his ability to 
find his way back again, as if he had been drifting about 
among the islands of the South Sea upon a raft. After 
turning the first corner, he became so hopelessly confused 
and had so absolutely lost his bearings as to make it a mat- 
ter of indifference which way he went ; he was lost anyway. 
One never fully appreciates how much we unconsciously de- 
pend upon land marks in our daily walks until we lose 
them. If Dillon had suddenly been stricken with blind- 
ness, he could not have been more helpless than he was. 
All traces of buildings had disappeared, street lamps could 
only be distinguished when he almost ran into them, and 
he actually did run into several people, from his sheer in- 
ability to see them. It might have been described as a 
darkness, intense in itself, hung about with an impenetra- 
ble pall of blackness still more intense. 

Still, as Dillon had anticipated, there was a certain fas- 
cination about it all. It was an absolutely new and un- 
tried experience to him, for one thing; and that in itself 
always possesses a charm for youth. Then again, somehow 
he now felt a sense of self-gratulation that comes to a 
man when, if it is impossible to help his friend in dis- 
tress, he as nearly as possible places himself in a similar 
position. He knows how it feels himself, and that keeps 
his sympathies alert. So Dillon went on and on, turning 
out of one street and into another, entirely without either 
purpose or direction, and never for a moment stopping to 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


267 

think how he could ever retrace his steps. Young and 
strong as he was, it was a delight to be able to stretch out 
his legs and swing his arms; to go as he pleased, without 
any reference to Dobson, who had of late, from motives of 
his own, become such a drag upon his movements as to 
annoy him excessively. Not only to annoy, either, for, for 
reasons he could hardly explain even to himself, he had 
begun to be a little suspicious of the man. Dobson had 
never been frank and open with him, had never appeared 
to sympathize with him in his anxiety for his sister; and, 
of late, had begun to be very exacting in his demands for 
money. Now Dillon was willing enough to part with his 
money while he felt he was in doing so getting nearer to 
the object of his search; but, to feel that possibly he was 
only filling the pockets of his friend Dobson now quietly 
sleeping before the fire at the hotel was by no means a 
reassuring reflection, from any point of view. But, what 
could he do? He had placed his affairs in the hands of 
this man. He knew of no other better fitted for the pur- 
pose. It had seemed very easy to trust Dobson in the wilds 
of an American mining town, where now in London it 
appeared very difficult to do so. Dillon had matured 
greatly since his first meeting with Dobson, and now his 
short life in London had still further opened his eyes. 
Everyone in London seemed so distrustful of his neigh- 
bor, so inclined to look upon the hard, selfish side of human 
nature, that he found himself insensibly beginning to do 
the same thing. He distrusted Dobson, at any rate, and 
would have been glad to shake him off; but he knew not 
how. Then the vastness of London appalled him. How 
should he ever hope to find his sister in such a place un- 
aided, if, while aided he had so far made so little progress ? 

With such reflections crowding upon his mind Dillon 
pressed on, now so hopelessly lost as to be indifferent to it. 
Still, as everything has an end, there came a time when 


268 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


he suddenly reflected that, unless he had been going round 
in a circle ever since he left his hotel, he must now be a 
long way from it. It was now rather late in the evening, 
and the fog had sensibly lifted, although by no means dis- 
appeared. It was possible, however, to make out the out- 
lines of the buildings to a certain degree, and to judge of 
the character of the streets he was passing through. He 
could also distinguish human figures with some distinct- 
ness when in the vicinity of a street lamp. Just as he was 
beginning to feel a little uneasiness as to the best method 
of finding his way home, a policeman, approached him from 
behind, and, as he came abreast of him, asked, in the re- 
spectful manner that characterizes the London police offi- 
cer: “Beg pardon, sir, but do you know where you’re go- 
ing? There were two rather hard lookin’ men followin’ 
you until I got my eye on ’em ; but, as soon as I take it off 
they’ll be on your track again, knowin’ that I can’t leave 
my beat. Now, sir, if you’ll tell me where you want to go. 
I’ll try to set you on your way; but don’t go the way 
you’re goin’ now, for in five minutes, if you do, you’ll 
be in the worst part of London, a place where even the 
police don’t much care to go except in considerable force.” 

“You are very kind, officer,” replied Dillon. “The fact 
is, I’m afraid I’ve lost my way. I’m a stranger in London, 
and I thought I’d like to take a walk in the fog; but I see 
now I have bitten off rather more than I can chew. I 
should be much obliged to you if you would show me the 
way out of the network of streets that don’t seem to lead 
anywhere, and into some thoroughfare from which I can 
get a start in the right direction, or find a cab to take me 
home.” 

“Just what I thought, sir, I could see you were a 
stranger. A man who knows London would never venture 
alone into this part of it after nightfall. It’s as much as 
one’s life is worth. This way, sir, if you please.” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


269 

And at that the officer led the way through a number of 
squalid streets, until the lights of a large and well-lighted 
thoroughfare appeared in sight. “There,” said the man, 
“is Commercial Road ; and you can take a bus or a cab to 
almost anywhere you wish to go. Good-night sir.” 

And the policeman, touching his hat, was about to leave 
him. Dillon called him back, saying: “You’ve been very 
good to me, officer, and it’s a very cold night. Do you hap- 
pen to know of a quiet place about here where we could get 
a drop of whisky? I don’t think it would hurt either of 
us, do you?” 

“No, sir; but I’ve got my service stripe on, sir; I’m 
afraid it wouldn’t answer.” 

“Just take off your service stripe, then,” said Dillon, and 
lead on to the first place where we can find something to 
drink.” 

The officer seemed to think this invitation was one 
worth availing of, and soon they were standing in front of a 
small private bar in a public house on Commercial Road. 
They had their drink, and then Dillon slipped a half-sov- 
ereign into the policeman’s hand, thereby securing his 
friendship for life, and they were about leaving the place, 
when in the next compartment to the one in which they 
were standing Dillon distinctly heard his own name men- 
tioned. Two men were evidently having a drink, and one 
of them said to the other: “I’ve arranged for the room, 
right enough, but the thing will be to get this Dillon, 
or whatever’s his name to come to it.” 

“Leave that to me,” said the other voice. 

As there are a good many Dillons in the world, hearing 
one of them alluded to did not particularly impress our 
young friend; and now he and the officer stepped out into 
the street. There were a number of men and women stand- 
ing about the entrance to the public house, as unfortunately 
there always are in the poorer quarters of London. “And 


270 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


now,” said the policeman, respectfully, "if you will tell me, 
sir, about where you want to go, Fll set you on your way.” 

"I want to get to the Manchester Hotel, in Aldersgate,” 
said Dillon. 

"Ah, that’s a longish walk from ’ere, sir; and perhaps 
you had better take a cab. But, if you do walk, why turn 
to the right, go straight on through Commercial Road to 
Aldgate, through Aldgate to Leadenhall Street, Leadenhall 
Street to Cornhill, Cornhill to the Bank. Then turn into 
Cheapside until you come to the General Post Office, then 
turn up St. Martin’s Lane, to Aldersgate, and you’ll find 
your Hotel on the left-hand side of the way, sir; but it’s 
a pretty long walk.” 

"Well, I’m out for a walk,” said Dillon, "and so I’ll be 
off; and thank you again. By the way, officer, when 
you’re off duty, and can spare the time, drop into the Man- 
chester and we’ll have a drop of whisky, and I’ll tell you 
some stories of American mining life. Ask for Dillon, 
Patrick Dillon. And now, good-night.” 

"I’ll be glad to do so, sir, and thank you kindly,” re- 
plied the officer, and then they parted, Dillon proceeding up 
the Commercial Road towards the City, the officer return- 
ing to his beat. Hardly had Dillon turned his back upon 
the place, than a woman, veiled, and evidently of the bet- 
ter class of street women, left the place near the door of 
the public house where she had been standing during the 
conversation between the officer and Dillon, and followed 
him. The latter, feeling that it was getting late, and bear- 
ing in mind the officer’s statement that he had rather a 
long walk before him, now broke into a rapid pace, which 
the woman following him seemed to find it impossible to 
keep up. At any rate, choosing a part of the street where 
there were no listeners, she suddenly came up to Dillon 
from behind, and said : "I beg your pardon, sir, but I’d like 
a word with you, if you please. Don’t notice me here, 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


271 

but go on to the corner of the next street and Fll join 
you.” 

Dillon did as requested, and turning into the next street, 
where it was dark and sheltered from intrusion, waited for 
the woman to come up. 

“I heard your name and address as you gave them to the 
officer. Don’t ask who I am. Don’t ask me anything. I 
prefer at present to remain unknown. You are in London 
looking for a lost relative. I can help you; but you must 
follow my directions implicity. To-morrow, in the after- 
noon, the gentleman whom you call your friend, but who 
is really no friend, will have an engagement, and leave you 
for an hour or two. During his absence, a man will call 
upon you, and suggest to you to take a lodging in Cutter 
Street, at the house of a Mrs. Macklin. Go with him; 
but say nothing to your friend, Mr. Ferguson. That is, 
leave no address by which he can trace you to your new 
lodgings. I will see you there, and explain all. In the 
meantime, good-night. Don’t ask me anything, and don’t 
follow me. Do as I say, that is if you really wish to find 
your sis — your lost relative.” 

Before Dillon could recover from the surprise of this 
adventure, the woman was a hundred paces away from him, 
walking rapidly, as if desirous of not being followed. 
The young man hesitated a moment, as undecided whether 
to follow the directions given him and refrain from fol- 
lowing the mysterious woman, and then, recalling to his 
mind the fact of his having been rescued by what ap- 
peared to be the merest chance from one misadventure that 
evening, it would be as well not to tempt Providence a 
second time, turned his face again to the west, and started 
off at a rapid pace to return to his Hotel. He found it 
with less difficulty than he expected, and also found Dob- 
son waiting for him in no very amiable frame of mind. 
"And so you would go for a walk, would you, when I ad- 


2J2 


PATRICK DURBAR 


vised you against it? Well, boys will be boys, I suppose; 
but let me tell you, you have done well to return alive, for 
we’ve come as near having a black fog to-night as I have 
ever seen it, without actually having one. It’s cleared a 
little now, but it was bad enough early in the evening. 
Well, have you had any adventures? You didn’t find your 
sister, did you?” 

It suddenly and for the first time flashed upon Dillon’s 
mind that the woman he had met might have been his sis- 
ter; but for reasons of his own he preferred to keep his 
reflections to himself. "No,” he answered, carelessly, “but 
I found out a good deal about London I didn’t know be- 
fore; one thing in particular, that you have a capital Po- 
lice force here. An officer saw me getting into a bad part 
of the town, and promptly came to my aid and showed me 
the way to a wide thoroughfare, and sent me on my way 
home as straight as an arrow.” 

“And do you happen to know what thoroughfare it was ?” 

“Yes, the Commercial Koad.” 

“Good God, you didn’t get as far as that away from 
home, did you? It’s a wonder you ever got back.” 

“Yes, and I must have reached it by a round-about way, 
and through as bad a lot of streets as any in London, from 
what the officer told me.” 

“So, you stopped to talk with the man, did you?” 

“Oh, yes, I did more than that; I asked him to have 
a drink and we had rather a long chat. I asked him to 
come and see me here when he was off duty.” 

“You asked him to come and see you, a policeman?” 
asked Dobson, in an excited and angry voice. “Well, it 
does seem as if you had taken leave of your senses, Dil- 
lon.” 

“Why?” 

“Why ? Why, we don’t invite policemen to come and see 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


273 


us in England. They’re not supposed to be upon a social 
equality with, um, gentlemen.” 

“Probably your and my definitions of the word gentle- 
man would not agree, Mr. Ferguson. A gentleman in my 
country is the man who does gentle things; and is not 
necessarily gentle by birth. I shall be very glad to see 
my friend of this evening’s adventure again, for he proved 
himself a real friend to me, if half what both you and he 
say about the dangers of the east end of London on a 
foggy night are true.” 

“And I shall be particularly displeased to see him,” re- 
sponded Dobson, with an oath. “So don’t have him about 
when I’m with you.” 

“Very well, Mr. Ferguson; I won’t, if I can help it.” 

“Um, you must help it, I tell you; I will not have you 
bringing policemen to my hotel. Your American ways 
of doing things won’t go down here at all, at all ; Mr. Dil- 
lon. The idea of making a friend of a policeman; who 
ever heard of such a thing? By the way, I forgot to tell 
you, I’ve an appointment with my agent who is looking 
into your matters for two o’clock to-morrow afternoon. Do 
you think you can keep yourself out of mischief for an 
hour or two if left to yourself? Perhaps your police- 
man will look you up at that time. At any rate, I must 
leave you alone for a while.” 

“Very well, Mr. Ferguson. I’ll do my best to behave 
myself.” 

And so the men parted for the night. Dillon slept but 
little, feeling, without being able to account for it, as 
if he were upon the edge of a discovery. The following 
day, Dobson appeared ugly and taciturn; as if, having re- 
flected upon the ways of his young client over night, he 
had come to decidedly disapprove of them. Dillon, on 
his part, had come to more than ever distrust his mentor, 
and had fully made up his mind to give him the slip as 


18 


274 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


soon as an opportunity offered. Such was the position of 
affairs, when, true to his word, Dobson left the Hotel to 
keep his appointment with Sharnell at the public house in 
the Commercial Road, as agreed upon at their last meeting 
He left Dillon to himself with evident uneasiness and re- 
luctance ; but there being no alternative, it had to be done. 
So he consoled himself by asking Dillon for an advance of 
twenty pounds, which was promptly paid him, and then 
set out to keep his appointment. 

The young man took a seat by the coffee room fire, or- 
dered a drop of whisky and water, lighted his pipe, and 
quietly awaited events. In about half an hour, as if the 
party had allowed sufficient time to elapse to insure against 
a possible return of Dobson, the waiter came to Dillon and 
respectfully informed him that a man particularly wished 
to see him in the hall of the hotel, who declined to give 
his name, but said his business was important. Dillon 
immediately went to the man. “Did you wish to speak 
to me?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir, but not just here, if you don’t mind. Just 
outside. We can talk without bein’ over’eard.” 

They went out onto the street, and then the man began : 
“I come from an unknown friend of yours, sir, to tell 
you you’re wastin’ your time the way you’re goin’ to work 
about the business that brought you to London. More 
than that, the party you’re with is a regular bad un; no 
good at all. E’ll throw you, ’e will. How, sir, if you 
really want to find your relative, I’ll put you next to the 
man who’ll find her for you; but you must come with me. 
I’ll see you’re put up just as comfortable as you are here. 
Hot as stylish, it may be; but, what do you care for that?” 

After a short conversation, in which the man fully re- 
vealed himself as the party the woman said would call 
upon him, Dillon accepted the man’s invitation. He re- 
turned to the hotel, paid his bill, left a line for Dobson 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


275 


saying he had somewhat changed his plans and had taken 
lodgings, although not giving his new address; but said he 
would communicate with him when occasion offered. Then 
he had his luggage placed on a four-wheeler, and with his 
newly found friend on the box to direct the driver, drove 
away in the fog to his new quarters. 


CHAPTEK XX. 

The first effect of the astounding revelation which had 
come to her as the result of overhearing the conversation 
between Gow and his friend Shamell was to throw Mrs. 
Marley into a profound melancholy; the second, to place 
her on the horns of a very serious dilemma. Of course the 
reader has come to know by this time that Catherine Mar- 
ley was none other than Catherine or Kate Dillon, the 
sister of Patrick Dillon. By the same token, he has 
also come to suspect the painful nature of the story of her 
relations with Gow; the old story of woman’s faith in 
man; the most sacred of all things in life turned to the 
basest uses. So far, so good ; but, in dealing with an indi- 
vidual case, all sorts of allowances have to be made for 
personal peculiarities in either judging of the ethics of 
what the party in question has done, or in prognosticat- 
ing what he or she will do. Kate Dillon, as we shall 
call her from this time on, was a peculiar type of woman. 
Her early life was responsible for this. Born in a rough 
mining camp, of ordinary parentage, accustomed from in- 
fancy to scenes of violence, privations, the very hardest 
kind of fare, she had undoubtedly imbibed unconsciously 
a familiarity with the coarser, the more animal side of 
human nature, together with an independence of spirit, 
and a strength of character, which her subsequent educa- 
tion might easily have failed to eradicate. The real foun- 
dations of character date back to the earliest experiences 
and environments of life; and are no more to be rooted 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


277 


up than the foundations of anything in either the physical 
or spiritual worlds are to be rooted up. Then came her 
adoption, with her brother, by Patrick Dunbar, a moody 
but kindly man, whose influence upon her had probably 
been good in its way, but perhaps not all that could have 
been desired for a young girl whose destiny was so greatly 
to be changed by it. There came a time when Kate was to 
be thrown upon her own resources with no more knowledge 
or experience of the real world than such an early life as 
her’s had presupposed. However strong a character may be 
under conditions with which it has been familiar from 
early childhood, remove those conditions, replace them 
with others and essentially different ones, and you place 
upon the character a strain far exceeding that to which 
it would have been subjected if left to mature where it 
began. It had certainly proved to be so in the case of 
Kate Dillon. She would have protected herself, probably 
with ease, from either the wild beast, the bad men, or the 
other dangers, whatever they might have been, of the 
rough country in which she had been bom, where she was 
unable to do so in a country where all the land-marks, the 
danger signals which she had come to understand as a 
child, had either been removed, or had never existed. The 
fact of such a woman’s having fallen a victim to the 
wiles of an accomplished London roue like Sidney Gow, 
was in a word, pretty much what might have been ex- 
pected to happen under the circumstances. 

But, while this is true enough, it might or might not 
account for the effect of the final catastrophe upon an in- 
dividual case. The transition from the pure woman to the 
impure one, is, unfortunately a phenomenon of such fre- 
quent occurrence as to render it not particularly interesting 
to the student of human nature. The result of the trans- 
formation, however, is always expected to be about the 
same. A woman who has taken her first false step thinks 


278 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


that because she knows it all the world either knows it, or 
will come to know it in time. Having lost her own self- 
respect, she supposes she has lost the respect of the world 
at large; and her downfall begins at once and leads her 
to God only knows what depths of degradation. There 
are exceptions, however, to every rule; and Kate Dillon 
had proved herself the exception. With her, reared under 
conditions where Nature asserted herself in many forms 
and ways, it probably occurred to her that Nature knew 
pretty well what she was about in her dealings with the 
human passions, as she showed herself to be in other mat- 
ters; and that she might in a measure at least, be con- 
sidered responsible for their results. At any rate, this 
particular woman, though ruined according to the world’s 
standard of measuring such things, had not been ruined 
relatively to her own standard of measuring them. The 
result was, not having lost her own self-respect, she felt 
she had not lost that of the world ; and she demanded it as 
her right. Then again, being possessed of a strength of 
character commensurate with the ruggedness of her early 
life, she had not only been able to stand alone when thrown 
absolutely upon her own resources, but she had been sus- 
tained by the pursuit of an unchangeable purpose, a pur- 
pose which the reader may have already partly divined ; but 
which it will be the function of our story to more fully 
make clear. 

So, as has already been said, the astonishing news that 
her brother was actually in London bent upon her recovery, 
together with the strange concatenation of events by which 
he had become the heir to a vast estate of which he as yet 
did not even know the existence; all this at first made her 
melancholy, and then puzzled her. To go to a man like 
Dunbar and acquaint him with the ill tidings of his own 
downfall, and at the same time tell him of her brother’s 
accession to his position in the world, his fortune, one 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


279 

might say, his happiness; for fortune and position consti- 
tute happiness, was a task beyond her powers. Dunbar was 
the only human creature who had condescended to treat 
her as a fellow human creature ; or, to state it more truly, 
he had not condescended. He had treated her as a lady 
out of the natural goodness of his heart. There had been 
no condescension about it. There had been in his treat- 
ment of her a tacit and unconscious recognition of the 
attitude she had assumed towards her own inner self, which 
had been ineffably sweet to her. Strong woman as she was, 
and indifferent to the world’s opinion, as she had tried to 
be, she would cheerfully have laid down her life for that 
man. And now to be the intermediary through which mis- 
fortune was to reach him was a trying ordeal indeed. But, 
it had to be done. She was not a person to turn back, once 
having put her hand to the plough. So she had sent a line 
to Dunbar requesting him to meet her at the little restau- 
rant in Leicester Square. She began the conversation: 

“Mr Dunbar, you have always been too kind and good 
to ever ask me anything about myself or my affairs, know- 
ing from your instincts as a gentleman that such a course 
would be distasteful to me. Fate, however, has fc 3 some 
inexplicable purpose or reason thrown our destinies together 
from the first time that we met. Your unaffected good- 
ness to me then gave me an impetus in life unknown be- 
fore, an impetus, a purpose to repay your goodness if I 
could. Judge of my despair, my perplexity in coming to 
you now to announce the worst tidings almost that could 
befall you; and, more than that, to actually take a part 
in the tragedy myself!” 

“Well, but this looks rather serious, Mrs. Marley,” re- 
plied Dunbar. “You can’t possibly have any worse news 
than you had to tell me when last we met?” 

“From your standpoint, possibly not ; but from mine, in- 
finitely worse. To begin with, please address me from this 


280 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


out as Miss Dillon ; for I am not married, nor is my name 
Marley. The latter is an assumed name that I took for 
purposes of my own, and which, as far at least as you are 
concerned, I now abandon.” 

“Yes, I see, Miss Dillon. And now will you do me the 
favor to tell me your news ; for I confess to a good deal of 
curiosity.” 

“Let me ask you one or two questions, Mr. Dunbar. 
First, you had an uncle in America named Dunbar?” 

“Yes.” 

“Second, he settled in Nevada, after having lived for a 
time in New York?” 

“Yes, I have reason to believe so.” 

“Third, did you ever hear of his having adopted anyone 
after having quarreled with his people in England ?. 5 

“No, not exactly; but, putting what you told me at our 
last interview together with what I have since learned by 
consulting certain papers left me by my father, I am quite 
prepared to believe any story of the kind. Please go on.” 

“I know from the best possible evidence that your uncle 
adopted two orphans in a mining camp in Nevada . 55 

“Would you mind telling me their names, and how you 
came to know of the circumstances ? 55 

“Their name was Dillon ; and I was one of them !” 

“Good God, you; and the other ? 55 

“My brother, Patrick Dillon; who is now in London, 
and who is the true heir to the estate you are now in 
possession of.” 

Dunbar almost reeled in his chair, but, with an impa- 
tient gesture, as if not wishing to interrupt the speaker, 
motioned her to go on. 

“I was not aware of the fact that my brother was the 
heir of your late uncle until last night, when I over- 
heard a conversation which left no possible doubt of the 
matter in my mind. My brother does not know of it yet . 55 


PATRICK DURBAR 


281 


Then Kate Dillon went on and repeated all she had 
heard, and fully informed Dunbar of the condition of 
affairs up to date, ending up by stating that, although she 
had not yet made herself known to her brother, she expected 
to do so immediately; but had preferred to acquaint Dun- 
bar with the facts and ask his advice as to how to proceed, 
before she broached the matter of the inheritance to her 
brother. Dunbar was thunder-struck; but, after think- 
ing the matter carefully over, said: “Well, there’s noth- 
ing to be done but to hand over his property to your 
brother. He will, of course, show me the legal evidence 
of his title to it, as a matter of form; but, as I have no 
possible doubt as to its accuracy, there will be no difficulty 
about the matter; and the sooner it’s over, the better I 
shall be pleased. Tell your brother so, with my compli- 
ments, and arrange any meeting between us that you see 
fit.” 

“Yes, but your family. Will they take the same view you 
do of this matter?” 

“My wife, yes. We have already arranged to move into 
less expensive quarters, and shall do so now immediately. 
My mother and sisters, I am sorry to say, will offer some 
opposition to your brother’s entrance into his inheritance. 
Just how formidable it will prove I am not in a position 
to say; but, by the time your brother has made proof of 
his claim, I assume all difficulties upon the parts of my 
family will have been cleared away. Women, you know, 
Miss Dillon, are apt to be a little tenacious of their rights.” 

“Yes, I know,” said Kate, thoughtfully; <f but you and 
your wife are actually going to move out of your house 
before you are, before — ” 

“Why not? I was certain when first I heard you speak 
of this matter that my uncle had made a later will than 
the one under which I inherited. I did not know in whose 
favor, it is true ; but now that I know, why should I inter- 


282 


PATRICK DURBAR 


pose any difficulties? It will come to the same thing in 
the end. In fact, I congratulate both your brother and 
yourself, my dear Miss Dillon, upon your good fortune; 
and may your occupancy of it be longer than mine has 
been.” 

“I thank you for your kind wish, Mr. Dunbar; but if 
I have anything to say in the matter, and I think I shall, 
matters will be arranged, perhaps, a little differently from 
what you appear to expect.” 

As nothing more could be done until Kate had seen her 
brother, she now took her departure; and Dunbar went 
home to inform his family of what had taken place. In a 
few days afterwards, he, his wife and child and two ser- 
vants were cosily settled in their little house in Eversfield 
Road, Wandsworth. His mother and sisters remained 
alone in possession of the Portland Place establishment, 
and hoisted all kinds of signals of defiance to any possible 
invader of their fortress. 

In the meantime Sharnell and Dobson had had their 
meeting by appointment at the public house in the Com- 
mercial Road. A brief account of it will be in order for 
the purpose of preserving the entire continuity of our lit- 
tle drama, and for the final disposition of one, at least, of its 
actors. When the two men met, Sharnell began at once, 
in compliance with the program arranged between himself 
and Gow, to intimidate Dobson by working upon his fears 
of arrest. Gow, he said, had been found, but had abso- 
lutely refused to have anything to do with the matter of 
trying to worm money out of Dunbar; having, as he said, 
trouble enough on his hands, and having heard indirectly 
that Dunbar was getting evidence together that would 
lead to the attempted apprehension of not only himself 
but of Dobson, whom he suspected was not very far away 
from London. This being the case, Gow, Sharnell said, 
was obviously in no mood to go and place himself in Dun- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


283 

bar’s power; and, in fact, he had flatly declined to do so. 

Here Dobson had broken in, as Sharnell had expected 
him to do, and had asked what he, Sharnell, thought of the 
advisability of his, Dobson’s remaining in London under 
such conditions. Whereat Sharnell had shrugged his 
shoulders, in a deprecatory manner, and said that it was 
hardly competent for him, a layman, to advise a sharp old 
lawyer like Dobson what to do in an emergency like the 
present; but , he would, if placed in similar circumstances, 
make as speedy a departure as possible for the continent; 
leaving his affairs in the best hands he could find to man- 
age them. 

So impressive was Sharnell able, aided by Dobson’s un- 
easy conscience, to make his warning appear, that before 
the meeting was over the latter had inwardly made up his 
mind to cross over to Ostend by the steamer of that very 
evening, and without even returning to his hotel to pay 
his bill and take away his luggage. He arranged with 
Sharnell to communicate to him his wishes in regard to 
what was to be done with Dillon as soon as he was in a 
place of safety. In the meantime he evinced so much 
uneasiness and desire to be gone that Sharnell finally left 
him, feeling pretty sure of never seeing him again; a feel- 
ing which was afterwards fully justified by the facts. In 
a word, Dobson took a steamer for Ostend, as already 
hinted ; then having got as far as Brussels, began so much 
to dread being followed that he never even wrote to Shar- 
nell ; and finally drifted so far away from London and the 
interests and purposes of our story as never to be heard 
of again. 

While all this was going on in one part of London, our 
young friend Dillon had arrived at his new lodgings in 
Cutter Street, had been introduced to Gow under the name 
of Stanford, and to his landlady, Mrs. Macklin. He had 
been rather taken aback at the squalidness of his sur- 


PATRICK DURBAR 


284 

roundings at first, but had consoled himself with the re- 
flection that, in carrying out the directions of the strange 
woman he had met in the street, he was in all probability 
putting himself in the best possible train to accomplish the 
object of his search. Being accustomed, also, to a rough 
life from early association, the privations of an east end 
residence for a season were not as onerous as they might 
have proved to a person differently circumstanced. At any 
rate, in a very few hours after his arrival in Gutter Street, 
he had begun to feel as much at home in the place as if he 
had lived there for the larger portion of his life. 

His first interview with Stanford or Gow, had failed 
to impress him favorably ; but, here again, he did not allow 
himself to be greatly discomfited, feeling sure that in due 
time the strange woman could be relied upon to arrange 
a meeting between them. Nor was he disappointed. Kate 
Dillon, well knowing that her brother had been taken to 
Cutter Street for the express purpose of getting him away 
from the influence of Dobson, and under that of Gow and 
Sharnell, recognized the necessity of extreme caution in 
communicating with him in such a manner as to arouse the 
suspicions or the hostility of these men. As Gow, for rea- 
sons of his own, kept the house during the day, and as Shar- 
nell would be apt to be there in the evening, each in turn 
keeping watch over her brother’s movements, it was a lit- 
tle difficult to arrange an interview; but she at last man- 
aged it through Mrs. Macklin, whom by this time she had 
fully enlisted in her service. This lady was now requested 
to give young Dillon a hint that a person was waiting to 
see him at the house across the street, and, at the same 
time, to engage Gow in conversation while Dillon had time 
to slip out and get under cover before Gow could follow 
him. All this was so successfully managed that the lat- 
ter gentleman never knew of Dillon’s departure until he 


PATRICK DUNBAR 285 

had returned to his room after his interview with his sis- 
ter. 

Any attempt to describe or account for the actions of 
people whose ways of doing and looking at things are ab- 
solutely unconventional is necessarily abortive. To attempt 
to analyze Kate’s feelings at the immediate prospect of 
meeting her brother, to whom in the course of events she 
must surely confide her relations with Grow, would involve 
a knowledge, not only of the ordinary, but of the ex- 
traordinary human heart; both of which are beyond the 
powers of the writer. 

Suffice it to say, Dillon, on knocking at the door of the 
house he had been directed to, was admitted by a very 
slovenly looking woman, whose family likeness to his own 
landlady did not fail to attract his attention, and was 
requested to ascend the stairs and enter the front room. 
He did so, with the result that he found his sister, whom 
he failed to recognize at first, quietly waiting to receive 
him. 

“And don’t you know me, Pat ?” she asked, rising to em- 
brace him. 

“For the love of God, is that you, Kitty?” said the 
young man, rushing into her arms where he held her fast 
for some moments, the tears of joy gushing from his hon- 
est eyes. 

“Ah, now, sit down, Pat, and listen to me, for it’s a long 
story I’ve to tell you, and both you and I are watched, or 
are likely to be if we remain too long together, by the 
biggest blackguard in London; and that’s saying a lot.” 

“Is it the young divil they call Stanford living in my 
house, you mean, Kitty?” 

“Deed an’ it ’tis, Pat; and it’s a long score you and I 
have to settle with that man !” 

“I could swear to it, Kitty, by the looks av ’im; but go 
on with your story. By the Powers, if he’s gone anything 


286 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


but straight with you, my dear, it were better he'd a mill- 
stone on his neck and in the middle of the river/’ 

It was noticeable that both Dillon and his sister, both 
of whom were fairly free from brogue when by themselves, 
adopted it when they came together. It was probably the 
result of long youthful association. 

“Keep still, Pat, darlin’, until I tell my story. But 
first let me tell you the news; great news, at that. You’re 
a millionaire, Pat, my dear, a millionaire, half a dozen 
times over ! What do you think of that ?” 

“Nonsense, Kitty, don’t be after makin’ fun of me. 
Where would I be getting a million from, let alone more ?” 

“Listen, Pat, an’ I’ll tell you. You know well enough 
that you were the heir to our adopted father, Mr. Patrick 
Dunbar; God bless him!” 

“Yes, of course I know that; but how did you know it? 
It happened after we had lost sight of you altogether, or 
I should have sent you your share of the estate long ago. 
Sure, I have it safe enough for you in the Bank of San 
Francisco, barring a few hundred pounds I’ve with me 
in case I found you ; which, thank God, I have !” 

“Thanks, dear Pat, its the good heart you have, I know 
full well; and I’ll take the money blithely enough, for 
God knows I need it; but listen, dear, a lot of things have 
happened you know nothing about which I have found out 
by accidents which I will tell you of as I go along. In the 
first place, Mr. Dunbar had a large estate in New York, 
which even he did not know of at the time of his death. 
You having been made his heir by his will, come into this 
estate as well as the one you have already taken possession 
of. It runs into the millions, my dear, and there’s only 
one drawback to it, and that is that in taking possesion of 
it you will turn out of it the finest gentleman in the world. 
A man I would lay down my life to serve.” 

“Tell me his name, Kitty, darlin’, that I may thank ’im 


PATRICK DUNBAR 287 

if he’s been good to you ; and tell ’im to keep the estate. 
Sure, we’ve enough without it; the two of us!” 

“That’s my dear Pat!” said Kate, getting up and ten- 
derly kissing her brother. It’s myself who knew just how 
you’d look at this matter; and now, thank God, the thing’s 
easy. With such a heart as yours, Pat, and a heart like 
young Patrick Dunbar’s, we’ll soon settle this business. 
Glory be to God; you’re the same true, brave boy I left 
you.” 

“The same, Kitty; but, by God, a bad man to any one 
who’s played you false, my darlin’ ; so please get on to that 
part of your story. The other part of it can wait.” 

“Yes, Pat, it can. Well, you know, I was for a time in 
the employment of a family of the name of Gow.” 

“Yes, I know that; and many’s the letter I’ve written to 
that family to get word of you, and all that I could find 
was that you had left for parts unknown.” 

“They said nothing else?” 

“No, not in so many words; but in an underhand way 
they hinted at things which would not have been well for 
them to have said in my presence. If there’s a man left in 
the family, it’s one of the things I’ve in my mind to do, 
to call upon ’im and have a few words with ’im; as be- 
tween man an’ man !” 

“Right, Pat, so you shall; but, mind you, not on your 
life until you’ve got the word from me. Promise me that, 
Pat, dear; or I’ll tell you nothing more of my sad story. 
Promise.” 

“Yes, Kitty, I promise; but not until you promise to 
let me get at the man, if what I suspect is true, when the 
time comes. Is it a bargain?” 

“It’s a bargain, Pat, an’ what you suspect is true, God 
help me; but without you, and alone, I’ve followed that 
man night and day until I’ve driven him into a place as 
mean as the one we’re now in; hungry, penniless, ruined, 


288 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


he is ; and, by the grace of God, Fll continue to follow him 
to the ends of the earth until he undoes the wrong he’s 
done me. This I shall do all the easier now you’ve come, 
my darlin’; but I’d ’a done it anyhow, and you know I 
would ; for the same blood runs in our veins !” 

“Eight well I know it, Kitty, my dear, an’ the two of 
us will make life anything but a walk-over for this gentle- 
man; whose name and address you’ll now be after givin’ 
me, my dear, if you please !” 

“An’ you don’t blame me, Pat?” 

“Do I blame the sweetest and kindest and honestest 
and truest soul in the world? Do I look like it? Not 
much, Kitty. It’s myself who is to blame for ever having 
let you leave home alone and unprotected. You’d no 
call to come to a place like I’ve found this wicked London 
to be. I should have known better; but I was but a child 
at the time, you know, Kitty, an’ you mustn’t lay it up 
agin’ me. An’ now this gentleman’s name an’ present ad- 
dress, if you please.” 

“His name is Sidney Gow, Pat; and his present address 
is the same as your own. I arranged to put you near him 
so that he should never escape us.” 

“An’ you did right, Kitty, my darlin’ ; he never shall !” 


CHAPTER XXI. 


There is a story told of an American hunter who all of one 
morning hunted a bear ; but, about noon, for some probably 
good and sufficient reason, the relations between the bear 
and the man got mixed up ; and, as a consequence, all the 
afternoon the bear hunted the man. This was now what 
happened to Gow and young Dillon. Left to himself, it is 
extremely probable that the latter would have called the 
former to a very strict accounting immediately after he 
had been apprised of how matters stood between him and 
his sister. Born and bred in a country where such mat- 
ters are settled promptly and with very little ceremony, 
Dillon would have made very short work of the righting of 
the wrong; but, having regard to his promise and possibly 
having convinced himself that nothing would be lost by a 
temporary delay, he bided his time. But, if Sidney Gow 
had had a blood-hound after him, he would have stood a 
much better chance of eluding the pursuit than followed 
as he was. 

It was with some amusement therefore, mingled with 
contempt, that Dillon now listened to the arguments which 
Gow brought forward for him to place himself unreservedly 
in his hands. Sharnell had by this time been introduced to 
him, and the three were sitting in Gow*s room, the evening 
after the interview between Dillon and his sister had taken 
place. Gow was explaining to him what a fortunate es- 
cape he had made in getting away from Dobson, or Fergu- 


19 


290 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


son, as Dillon knew him; and having turned up in his, 
Gow^s, and Sharnell’s hands. 

“You know, Mr. Dillon,” said Gow, looking towards 
Sharnell for approval and confirmation, “London is a 
pretty bad place. I dislike to say it, being an Englishman, 
but there are some very bad men in London. Now that 
man Dobson was a regular bad ’un. As bad as they make 
’em.” 

“Ah!” 

“Yes; ask Sharnell, if he wasn’t. He’d have robbed 
you to a dead moral certainty, if you’d remained with him. 
Whereas, we, Sharnell and I, will not only find your sis- 
ter for you, in time you understand, such matters require 
time, naturally; but we’ll find something else for you into 
the bargain. What if there was a fortune waiting for you 
here in England, Mr. Dillon, a large fortune? Such 
things happen, you know. What would you be inclined 
to do for the men who found it for you?” 

“A fortune running into a million pounds or so, Mr. 
Dillon,” said Sharnell, rubbing his hands. “Five millions 
of your money in the States.” 

“Why, I’d be inclined to do a lot”; replied Dillon, sim- 
ply, but with an incredulous smile. 

“Well, Mr. Dillon, there is such a fortune waiting for 
you; but it will take great care and skill to land it,” 
said Gow, and then he went on and told Dillon all about it, 
stating how Sharnell had got part of the story from Dob- 
son himself, and part from other sources ; but, putting them 
both together, he and Sharnell, through the perfect under- 
standing which existed between them, plus their acquaint- 
ance with Dunbar, and, in general, the most consummate in- 
telligence which illumined them, were just the men for the 
work. Dillon was most fortunate in having fallen into such 
hands; most fortunate indeed. 

“Yes,” said Dillon, after Gow had finished his story, 


PATRICK DURBAR 


291 


“but, if you please, Fd rather you’d find my sister first; if 
you don’t mind.” 

Then Gow, very gingerly suggested that any operations 
looking to the recovery of lost persons in London were at- 
tended with great expense; and, for that reason, he and 
his friend Sharnell had considered it prudent to assist him 
in securing his fortune first. With a large sum of ready 
money in hand, Dillon would be in a position to set 
agencies in operation which would undoubtedly lead to 
favorable results immediately. But, to seek to find his 
sister first, might entail upon him and his friend the dis- 
agreeable necessity of asking for money with which to pur- 
sue the search ; which they should much dislike to do. 

Dillon nodded an affirmative to this remark, but, with 
admirable presence of mind, resisted any temptation to 
take the hint. In fact, he rose from his chair, yawned, 
and said he was rather fatigued and thought he would 
retire for the night; which he immediately proceeded to 
do. Once in his room, he sat quietly listening to what his 
friends had to say, his sister having acquainted him with 
the secret of the closet. 

“Rum sort of fellow, seemingly,” said a voice which 
he recognized as Sharnell’s. “He somehow doesn’t seem to 
rise to the bait at all. He will be hard to make a bargain 
with, I’m thinking, when the time comes.” 

“Yes,” said Gow, “these damned Americans puzzle me. 
They know more of London and of London people two 
weeks after arriving here from their back woods than we 
do who’ve lived here all our lives. A little matter of 
finding a fortune of five or six millions waiting for them 
in a place where five or six millions of people are either 
struggling to get a living, or starving because they can’t 
get one; is an everyday occurrence to a man like our friend 
Dillon, it would seem, from the way he speaks of it. He 
smiles when you tell him the news, as if you’d told him 


PATRICK DURBAR 


2g2 

it was a fine day, and says he’d rather find his sister first, 
if you don’t mind. By the way, Sharnell, what are we 
to do about this finding of his sister? Sooner or later; 
sooner in my case, we’ll have to have some money; and, 
if he insists upon our finding his sister first, we’ll have to 
go to him for money before he gets any from the estate.” 

"Yes, it’s a bit awkward. Have you any idea or clue 
connected with this sister of his, Gow? You’re such a 
lady’s man, I thought you might have heard of someone 
by the name of Dillon.” 

There was a silence for a few moments, as if Gow was 
ransacking his memory for an answer to his friend’s ques- 
tion, and then he said with some evident excitement, "By 
God, Sharnell, your mentioning that name in that con- 
nection sets me to thinking. There was a governess in our 
family some years ago by the name of Kate Dillon, and 
she was an American. I had a bit of a flirtation with her. 
In fact, I may as well say I got a little spooney upon her, 
and went so far as to say I would marry her; never for a 
moment intending to do so, you understand, no fear; but 
the little fool took me seriously; and, well, there was a 
good deal of trouble over the matter at the time. My 
family got wind of it; and, of course, Miss Kate had to 
leave. What became of her I never knew. The same as 
becomes of all the girls who go wrong, I suppose ; she came 
up to London, and went to the devil. I’ve sometimes 
thought I’ve seen her face in a crowd on the streets, and 
sometimes I’ve even felt that she or some other girl was 
following me. One of late, in particular, whose face I 
can’t see, as she goes veiled, has taken the pains to follow 
me even into the east end. I wonder if by any possibility 
she could be the one. If she’s the one, Sharnell, I’d 
lose all my share in this deal of ours, and a good deal 
more, rather than find her; for, if I can read character at 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


2Q3 

all, I’d stand a small chance of my life with young Dillon 
if he found out my relations with his sister.” 

“That shows the beauty of mixing up business with other 
matters. It spoils the deal for me as well as for you, if it 
should turn out to be the same girl. But, mind you, I 
go on to the end of this matter, in any case ; and don’t you 
stand in my way, or by God, I shall very soon make you 
stand out of it.” 

“In which case, I shall be between two fires,” said Gow. 

“I don’t care what you’re between. You’ve had your 
fun with the girl, and it’s only right and proper you should 
pay for it. I’ve had no fun, and I’ll neither pay for yours 
nor have it taken out of my share of as pretty a piece of 
business as I’ve laid my hand to for many a day. So, Gow, 
take my word for it, if I see you in any way interfering 
with my game, I’ll put you where you ought to be; and 
where you’ll stay for a long time, once they get hold of 
you.” 

“There you are threatening again,” said Gow, in a sullen 
tone. “It’s not more than one chance in a million this 
young Dillon’s sister is the girl, at all ; and then, if she is, 
he doesn’t know it, and has no means of knowing me until 
he finds her, and she identifies me. All of which is so re- 
mote a possibility that its hardly worth considering; but I 
couldn’t help being struck with the similarity of the names, 
that’s all.” 

Here the voices ceased, and Dillon heard sounds indic- 
ative of a breaking up of the meeting. He retired to his 
bed, firmly resolved to bring the matter of a reckoning with 
Gow to a speedy termination, lest that gentleman should 
suddenly take it into his head to leave for parts unknown. 
The next day young Dillon and his sister met by appoint- 
ment and discussed the situation. As a result, both came 
to the conclusion that Dunbar had by all means better be 
taken into their confidence. To this end, Kate wrote to 


294 


PATRICK DURBAR 


that young gentleman asking for an interview, and re- 
ceived an answer requesting her to bring her brother to his 
house in Wandsworth upon an evening which he named. 

Kate, in anticipation of this event, and by means of her 
brother’s money had already completely refitted her ward- 
robe; so that upon the appointed evening, she and young 
Dillon made a most creditable appearance at Dunbar’s 
house. Helena having been fully apprised of the position 
of affairs by her husband, and feeling the greatest inter- 
est in the matter of righting a great wrong, did every- 
thing in her power to make Kate feel at ease, and the lat- 
ter more than appreciated her goodness. In almost any 
assembly of men and women, if the latter will only elect to 
get on with each other, there is seldom much difficulty in 
managing the former. It was certainly so upon this occa- 
sion, at any rate. Dunbar, upon being introduced to Dil- 
lon, shook him warmly by the hand, and introduced him 
and his sister to Mrs. Dunbar. After a very brief con- 
versation, in which Dunbar became absolutely certain of 
the justice of Dillon’s claim, they took up the considera- 
tion of Kate’s relations with Gow. In this discussion both 
Helena and Kate took part, it appearing to all concerned 
the most sensible thing they could do under the circum- 
stances. Before more than half arriving at the kernel of 
the matter, it became painfully evident to all that Kate’s 
utter helplessness and lack of knowledge of the world had 
been taken advantage of by a heartless scoundrel to such an 
extent as to absolutely excuse the victim. 

Kate told her story with an artlessness which carried 
conviction with it, and when asked what she desired to 
have done, replied, simply: “I only desire to have that 
man’s promise fulfilled.” 

“Yes, but think what a marriage to such a man means!” 
said Helena. 

“Think, rather, what a failure of marriage means,” re- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


295 

plied Kate, flushing up. “I have lived long enough under 
such a stigma ; and I shall bear it no longer. Unaided and 
alone, I should have compelled that man to keep faith with 
me. As matters stand now,” she added, looking towards 
her brother admiringly, “he will be a dead man within a 
week, or he will have kept his word with me.” 

“By God, you warm the cockles of my heart to hear you 
talk like that , Kitty, darlin’,” said Dillon. 

“But you can’t feel any affection for such a man?” said 
Helena. 

“That’s got nothing whatever to do with it,” said Kate. 
“We’ll talk about that after he’s made an honest woman of 
me.” 

“So we will,” echoed young Dillon. 

And then it was arranged between the men that Dillon 
should make an appointment with Gow for the following 
evening for the avowed purpose of discussing his affairs. 
In the meantime Dunbar and his wife should join Kate 
at her lodgings, and, at word reaching them through Mrs. 
Macklin that everything was in readiness, should proceed 
in a body to Dillon’s room. And so it was. The next day 
Dillon spoke to Gow and told him he thought the time had 
come for a frank talk with him about several matters, his 
sister in particular, and requested the favor of an inter- 
view for the evening. He also requested, as the matters 
under consideration in no manner related to Shamell, that 
that gentleman should be excluded from the conference. 
All this mightily pleased our friend Gow, as he now began 
to see his way to the execution of a plan he had long had 
in his mind, which was no other than to permanently ex- 
clude his partner Sharnell from any participation in the 
profits arising from the settlement of Dillon’s affairs. 
This would have been a matter attended with some diffi- 
culty without Dillon’s assistance; but, with it, it would be- 
come comparatively easy; and so he entered into the ar- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


296 

rangement proposed by that gentleman with enthusiasm; 
little dreaming what was to be the result. 

So they met, as agreed. “Mr. Stanford,” began Dillon, 
“a good deal of time has elapsed since my arrival in Lon- 
don; and, as far as appearances go, nothing has been ac- 
complished in forwarding the chief matter which brought 
me here. I refer to the recovery of my sister.” 

“Yes, Mr. Dillon,” Grow replied, unsuspectingly, “a good 
deal of time has certainly passed, as you say; but, at last 
you have done the thing you should have done at the very 
first; you have come to me. Of course you didn’t know it, 
and so there’s little or nothing to be said; but I am the 
man, not only to find your sister, but to put you into the 
possession of your estate. All I ask of you for the present 
is to absolutely confide in me, and to give no ear to what 
any one else has to say. This man Sharnell, for instance, 
is a good man in his way, a very good man; but, you see, 
he doesn’t belong to our class, and his perceptions are all 
wrong. He can’t for a moment appreciate the feelings of 
a brother anxiously seeking to recover a long-lost sister.” 

“Yes,” said Dillon, “anyone could see that. Now, with 
you, it’s altogether different. You can appreciate a 
brother’s feelings for a sister, Mr. Stanford. Possibly you 
have a sister of your own; and, for that very reason can 
sympathize with a man who wishes to save his sister from 
the dangers of a place like London. I appreciate such 
sympathy, Mr. Stanford, and am only too glad to place 
myself unreservedly in your hands. A fine sense of honor, 
Mr. Stanford, where a woman’s good name is concerned is 
rare in a wicked place like London; and I am delighted to 
recognize it in you. You must have had a careful bringing 
up. I can imagine your early life spent amidst the safe 
and innocent surroundings of an English country home, a 
good mother, a number of sisters, perhaps, a sensible, God- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


297 

fearing father, and all the peace and quiet of a Christian 
home.” 

Gow winced a little, but replied, “Oh, yes, Mr. Dillon, I 
do assure you, that’s exactly the life I led before I came 
up to London. But look at Sharnell for the other side 
of the picture. There’s a man who probably never in his 
life had a good smell of the fresh, clean air of the Eng- 
lish country. He was bora and brought up in this horrible 
London, and has had the smells of the gutters in his nos- 
trils ever since. What a man to entrust a man’s sister or 
her happiness to for a single instant.” 

“I quite agree with you, Mr. Stanford, and what you 
say impresses me with absolute faith that when the time 
comes you will do the right thing by my sister. And now, 
Mr. Stanford,” said Dillon, looking his man full in the 
face, and pulling his chair closer to Dow’s, as if to im- 
press him with the importance of what he had to say: 
“Now, sir, listen to me. Since my arrival in London, I 
have not been inactive by any means. *We Americans, Mr. 
Stanford, are a singular people; we work day and night 
for the accomplishment of our ends, and we never give in. 
We don’t know the meaning of the words discouragement 
or fatigue, when we are once enlisted in a cause we con- 
sider worthy of our attention. We become anxious, restless, 
eager, selfish, aggressive, and a good many other things; 
but , we generally end up by accomplishing what we set out 
to do. You English people hate us for all these qualities, 
and make fun of us; and I don’t altogether blame you. 
However, we’ll let that pass for the moment, as only ex- 
plaining how and why I should have made as much prog- 
ress in my search for my sister as I have; a stranger in a 
strange land.” 

Gow by this time began to show some signs of uneasiness, 
but said nothing. Dillon went on: “Yes, Mr. Stanford, 
I’ve found out a lot about my poor sister, a good deal of 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


298 

which may be of assistance to you in conducting your 
search for her. For instance, she was employed as a gov- 
erness in a family by the name of Gow, shortly after her 
arrival in England from America.” 

Here Gow decidedly changed color, and gave other un- 
mistakable signs of conscious gilt; but Dillon still looked 
him full in the face, and went on mercilessly. “In this 
family by the name of Gow, Mr. Stanford, there was, it 
appears, a young blackguard, who under an apparently 
sincere promise of marriage, took certain liberties with my 
sister; with the usual result, in this Christian England 
of yours: she was ruthlessly, wickedly driven out of the 
house in which she had been ruined by the son and heir 
of the house, and came up to London, as thousands of poor 
girls do every year, to be further put upon and wronged 
by the gilded youth of this Christian country of yours. 
The pig-headed public opinion of this still Christian coun- 
try of yours which makes it all right for the rich young 
men to do certain things, but all wrong for the poor young 
women to do them, completed the ruin of my poor sister, 
as far it was able to do so ; and, according to the standards 
of morality, very properly considers her as absolutely and 
irretrievably ruined. But, according to my standard and 
hers, my sister is not ruined at all. She is simply waiting 
for the man who fully intended to ruin her to come forward 
and fulfil his promise.” 

Here Gow turned very white, and looked furtively up 
into the face of his interlocutor. What he saw there could 
hardly have afforded him much comfort; for he suddenly 
rose from his chair, and made a movement towards the 
door, at which Dillon coolly drew a revolver from his hip 
pocket, and, with no more ostentation than if he were 
doing the most ordinary thing in the world, quietly cov- 
ered him, as he said: “Fll trouble you, Mr. Sidney Gow, 
to take your seat, and to remain there until I have finished 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


299 

what I have to say. I’ve only just commenced.” Then, 
rising and going himself to the door, he opened it, and 
going out into the passage, called to Mrs. Macklin over 
the stairs: “You may show my friends up, now, if you 
please,” and then returned to his room. 

Footsteps of several people were now heard on the stairs, 
and then Dunbar, his wife and Kate Dillon entered the 
room. Gow almost collapsed with fright; but, warned by 
Dillon, made no further demonstration than to turn even 
paler than before, if that were possible, and to turn from 
Dillon to Dunbar, as if curious to see which of these two 
men might now be looked to to give him his coup-de-grace. 

“Now, Mr. Sidney Gow,” said Dillon, “still holding his 
pistol in his hand as a playful reminder of the inadvisa- 
bility of making any resistance to a fair proposition he 
had to make him, “Now, sir, here is my sister, Miss Kate 
Dillon, whom you asked to be your wife. She is a thou- 
sand, a million times too good for you; that goes without 
saying ; but, having been foolish enough to once accept you 
as her husband, she adheres to her promise and expects you 
to fulfill yours. I , her brother, am also here to insist upon 
it. And now, sir, Fll trouble you to state your views upon 
the subject.” 

“You intend to force me to marry your sister, do you?” 
asked Gow, with a sickly smile, and some show of resistance. 
“You can’t do that kind of thing in this country, you 
know, Mr. Dillon. It won’t answer at all. Out in the wilds 
of America I assume it is different altogether; but you 
mustn’t attempt to bully or intimidate an Englishman, you 
know.” 

“Out in my country, Mr. Gow,” said Dillon, “you’d 
have been a dead man long ago. As it is, I’m doing what 
I consider the proper and right thing in affording you an 
opportunity to voluntarily right a great wrong you have 
done. As you don’t seem to avail of it, as I supposed you 


300 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


would, I now have to tell you that I shall take the greatest 
possible pleasure in putting a bullet into your head as 
speedily as possible, after I have found it to be a fact that 
you refuse to fulfil your promise to my sister.” 

“But that would be murder,” said Grow, wriggling in his 
chair, uncomfortably, as if fearing that Dillon’s pistol 
might be accidentally discharged before the expiration of 
the given time. Just then Dunbar rose from his chair, and 
approaching Gow, took from his wallet a bundle of papers, 
which he quietly unfolded and held before his eyes so that 
he could easily identify them. “Gow,” he said, “under 
ordinary circumstances, I should have pocketed the loss 
occasioned by the little irregularity you have been guilty 
of in regard to these bills; but, as matters stand now, you 
will immediately consent to doing what Mr. Dillon de- 
mands of you, or to-morrow morning I shall apply for a 
warrant for your arrest on a charge of forgery. Now, 
make your choice at once, as time presses.” 

A silence ensued, during which each one in the room 
appeared to be watching the progress of events from his or 
her own standpoint, and then Gow said,, in a sullen man- 
ner, “and if I do marry this woman, will that settle the 
matter of the, er, bills?” 

“As far as I am concerned,” said Dunbar, “yes. What 
final settlement Mr. Dillon will make with you, will de- 
pend upon him and not upon me; as it is really him you 
have robbed, and not me.” 

“All that can be arranged,” said Dillon, “the matter 
now before us is to complete this marriage; and I am 
still waiting to hear your decision.” 

Gow thought a moment, as if to give color to the assump- 
tion that he was not being intimidated, and then asked: 
“How soon must this be done, if done at all.” 

“To-morrow,” said Dillon, quietly. 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


301 

“That's rather short notice for such a serious step, isn’t 
it?” asked Gow. 

“Perhaps,” said Dillon; “but my poor sister has found 
it rather a long time since your first promise was made 
her, and you’ll keep her waiting no longer, if you please.” 

“Who’s to prevent my taking my time in a matter like 
this?” 

“You have altogether misunderstood me if you have 
failed to appreciate the fact that 1 will prevent you,” said 
Dillon, sternly. “I shall remain with you until you either 
do what I intend you shall do, or until I find that you 
will not do it; and then certain things will begin to hap- 
pen. Have the goodness to waste no more of either your 
own or my time in compelling me to go over this matter 
again.” 

“And you intend to remain here until I do what you 
want me to do?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“What if I raise a cry, and call for the police, as I 
think of doing. You’d soon find out that you couldn’t 
force a native-born Englishman beyond his will.” 

“The best possible way to find out what you desire to 
know is to try it,” coolly answered Dillon. “And, now, 
Mr. Gow, in the meantime, are you going to marry my sis- 
ter, or not?” Answer me, one way or the other, and at 
once.” 

“Yes, I am,” came the answer, in a sullen tone and man- 
ner, and then the party broke up, except as to Dillon 
and Gow, who remained watching each other the rest of the 
night. The bear mentioned at the beginning of this chap- 
ter had successfully cornered the man; instead of the 
other way about, as had originally been intended. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


No one knows, no one probably ever will know what con- 
junctions of the heavenly bodies preside at the birth of a 
given human impulse. Possibly, the heavenly bodies have 
nothing whatever to do with it; which is another way of 
saying that there is no such thing as predestination, and 
that things happen according to no set rule, but are sub- 
ject to circumstances which arise at the time, and over 
which no one has any control whatever. Whatever it was, 
therefore, that in the brief space of one night changed Sid- 
ney Gow from an apparently reluctant bridegroom into an 
apparently eager one, will probably forever remain his own 
secret, unless he chooses to reveal it. It might have been 
the short glimpse of eternity offered him over the barrel 
of Dillon’s revolver, the evening before, which promised a 
still longer one in case of a refusal on his part to act rea- 
sonably; it might have been a complete change of heart 
upon his part, it might have been entirely mercenary con- 
siderations, based upon his knowledge of Dillon’s and his 
sister’s changed prospects in life. 

Whatever it was, as much of the sun as it was possible 
to see through the fog of the east end of London at that 
time of the year rose upon a changed man in the person of 
our friend Gow on the morning of the day succeeding the 
one upon which the interview detailed in the last chapter 
had been held. Dillon had spent a sleepless night in 
watching lest his man should by any means escape him, to 
be accosted cheerily by Gow in the morning with “Well, 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


303 

brother-in-law to be, this is our wedding morning; and so 
let’s get about it. A license is the first thing in order, and 
I suppose you’ll prefer to go with me to obtain it?” 

“Rather,” replied Dillon. 

“And then there are a few arrangements to be made at 
the church, the pew-opener has to be subsidized, the parson 
and the rest of them have to be interviewed and set right; 
so, all things considered, we shall have all we can do to get 
through with the morning’s work, and we’d better make 
an early start.” 

“The earlier the better, as far as I am concerned,” said 
Dillon, in some astonishment at the sudden change of 
heart in his friend. 

“And the ladies have finally decided upon St. George’s, 
Hanover Square, for the church, have they?” 

“I believe so. We all intend to have the wedding in the 
best church in London, and to show every respect to the 
bride. Don’t make any mistake about that, Mr. Gow.” 

“Ho, on the contrary, I quite subscribe to the sentiment. 
In fact, I should prefer now to wait a day or two in order 
to get a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury ; 
but I suppose that would hardly suit your views?” 

“Hot at all. This matter can’t wait a day, an hour!” 

“Well, then the only thing to be done is to get a license 
from the Registrar of the district, and the marriage can 
take place immediately, either in church, or at the Regis- 
trar’s office.” 

“Let the ladies have their way. They are set upon a 
marriage in church, and in church it shall be.” 

“All right, I’ve nothing more to say.” So the two men 
went for the license, and upon their return to their lodg- 
ings made short work of getting Gow into clothing suit- 
able for the coming event. The same process was going on 
in Eversfield Road among the women. Helena presided 
over the dressing of the bride; and, when the two parties 


304 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


met at the church, a very fairly well appointed bridal 
couple they made, as far as the public is able to judge of 
such matters by outside appearances. At any rate, the 
service was performed with all the pomp and circumstance 
of the English ritual, the proper observance of every form 
or custom was insisted upon by Dillon, everyone who as- 
sisted in any manner whatever was duly and liberally re- 
membered, the parish register was duly signed and wit- 
nessed; and, at last the wedding party stood upon the 
porch of the church, surrounded by the small crowd of in- 
terested or curious people who always manage to be pres- 
ent on such occasions. Among the party themselves, with 
only one exception, the bride, there seemed to be an anx- 
ious and uncertain moment now. Nothing had so far been 
said as to the future relations of the newly married couple. 
That matter had been left to take care of itself. Kate, 
however, had undoubtedly settled the matter long before, 
in her own mind, as only women can settle such things. 

“And now, sir,” she said to her husband, just as she was 
about to enter her carriage to be driven away, “now, sir, 
having at last fulfilled your promise to me, you are free 
to go where you please. I shall trouble you no more, nor 
shall I expect to be troubled by you. I wish you no greater 
evil than the thoughts that will come to your mind when- 
ever you look upon the lost women in a great city like 
London, and realize what a salvation even such a hollow 
form as we have just gone through would be to many of 
them. Very many of these poor creatures were promised 
in apparent good faith the joys, the protection of mar- 
riage; as I was. They were cruelly disappointed, their 
hearts were broken, their pride humiliated, and they be- 
came the wretched creatures they are. They are to be 
more pitied than condemned; and may God have mercy 
upon them, the mercy that they will never receive from 
their fellow men and women! Farewell.” 


PATRICK DURBAR 


305 

Saying which, quietly and with no apparent bitterness, 
the singular woman stepped into the carriage occupied by 
Dunbar and his wife. Dillon followed them, and the four 
drove rapidly away, leaving Gow standing alone upon 
the church porch. 

Now that the object of Kate’s sojourn in the east end 
had been attained, there was no occasion for her further 
residence there. The same reason applied to Dillon with 
equal force; so, having been cordially invited by Dunbar 
and Helena to make their house their home until other 
arrangements could be made, they gladly accepted the in- 
vitation, and the two families joined forces immediately 
after the wedding. The effect upon Kate, now Mrs. Sid- 
ney Gow, of the relief from her former unfortunate condi- 
tion, and the present happiness and prosperity which sur- 
rounded her was simply marvellous. In a few short weeks 
after her arrival at the Dunbars’, she became a light- 
hearted, beautiful, and charming woman. Helena and 
she had liked each other from the start, but now became 
inseparable. Dunbar and Dillon hit it off equally well, 
and became fast friends. Eversfield Road, Wandsworth, 
at the time of which we speak, was a new street which had 
been laid out through an old apple orchard in that part 
of London. Like many other of the better suburbs, 
Wandsworth, or this part of it, was extremely pretty and 
desirable in every way as a residence. There still re- 
maining several new and empty houses near the Dunbars, 
Dillon one day announced his intention of taking one of 
them for his own and his sister’s occupancy. This brought 
up the whole question of the relinquishment on the part 
of Dunbar to Dillon of his estate; to which the latter had 
replied that he and his sister were in no possible haste 
about entering into possession, and much preferred for 
the present at least to remain near such good friends as 
they had found the Dunbars to be. 


20 


306 


PATRICK DURBAR 


“Yes, my dear boy,” Dunbar had replied, “but this 
won’t do. You are fully entitled to your estates. I don’t 
dispute your claim, which you have fully established by 
this time. Now why don’t you take possession?” 

“Well, for one thing, Dunbar, I’m perfectly happy and 
contented as I am. I am not used to luxury, and would 
feel out of place in a grand house. So would Kate. That’s 
reason number one. Then, there are the ladies of your 
family to be considered; your mother and sisters. They 
are as much accustomed to their way of living as Kate 
and I are to ours. So why disturb them ? Reason number 
two. Then, I allow myself to be guided a good deal by 
Kate in such matters, and Kate, I fear, will never con- 
sent to live in a house from which such good friends as 
you and your dear wife have been driven by adverse cir- 
cumstances. So, my dear boy, you will do my sister and 
me a great service if you will allow matters to stand just 
where they are for the present. You have made over to 
me the income arising from the estate in a most handsome 
and generous manner; so I am rich beyond my most san- 
guine expectations. Let the matter of the apparent pos- 
session of the landed property remain to settle itself. Some 
day your mother and sisters will perhaps tire of keeping up 
the properties upon a diminished income, and then it 
will be time enough to make different arrangements.” 

And this was done. No two men or two women ever 
understood each other better, nor valued each other more 
than Dillon and Dunbar, and Kate and Helena. As to 
the ladies at Portland Place, they remained in the position 
they had assumed at the start, of open defiance. They 
had engaged expensive counsel, and were all prepared for 
the opening of hostilities; which, to their evident sur- 
prise, never opened. A large portion of their income was 
cut off by the release Dunbar made to Dillon of the New 
York rents and other dividends, but enough still remained 


PATRICK DURBAR 


307 

to support them in fairly good style ; and more than enough 
to keep them in good fighting condition. As relations be- 
tween Dunbar and his family were considerably strained 
already, this condition of affairs hardly tended to restore 
the lost equilibrium ; and they saw very little of each other. 
Finally, however, came the time when the family at Port- 
land Place usually closed that house and went to their 
country seat in Devonshire. The ladies were fearful of 
an invasion on the part of the Dillons as soon as their 
backs should be turned, and, also, it is to be assumed, were 
by this time a little conscience-stricken at the wrong-head- 
edness and absurdity of the position they had taken up. 
Their lawyer, after a careful examination of the papers 
Dillon had submitted to him, had been compelled to ad- 
vise them that they had absolutely no case in law; and 
that they only retained their present possession by rea- 
son of the courtesy and admirable forbearance of the true 
owners of the estate. In due time this idea had so far 
penetrated the rather coarse fibre of Mrs. Dunbar’s make- 
up as to at least excite her curiosity to see what manner of 
man it was, who, having a perfect claim to a large estate, 
refrained from pressing it. This curiosity was largely 
shared by the young ladies; so much so, indeed, that it 
now became a question as to how a meeting between the 
young man and themselves could be brought about with 
the least loss of prestige to their family pride. As to any 
possible social intercourse with the sister, after the life 
she had led up to her marriage, that was, of course, out 
of the question. In the eyes of the law, and those of the 
world at large, Mrs. Sidney Gow was now an eminently re- 
spectable member of society; but to these ladies she was 
pretty much as she had always been, vastly inferior, and 
not to be associated with on any terms. 

In the meantime, Dillon and his sister being possessed of 
large means, had assumed a manner of life, which, although 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


308 

modest as measured by their wealth, was extremely com- 
fortable and refined. They had both improved in appear- 
ance and in that ineffable air and bearing which the con- 
sciousness of large wealth always imparts to a person. 
They were in a word stylish ; a word which presupposes not 
only good style, but conformity with it. They were, at 
any rate, very good to look upon: A strong, well-knit fig- 
ure of a man, bronzed by the active out-of-door life he had 
led in his native wilds, simple and unspoiled in manner, 
young, handsome and graceful, richly endowed with nat- 
ural goodness, and with as good an education as the col- 
lege life of an American provincial town could supply. 
Add to all this a certain air of lofty independence, a physi- 
cal and moral courage, a natural personal dignity which 
no one who knew him would ever think of trespassing upon, 
and you had a pretty fair description of Patrick Dillon, 
the man; but, when this kind of man had submitted him- 
self to a west end tailor, haberdasher, barber, jeweler, and 
all the other people who take a hand in adorning and de- 
veloping all the physical points of a man; the result was 
all that it could be expected to be. 

And, as to Kate, what with her own good taste, and 
Helena’s, plus a good deal of natural beauty, and now the 
charm of restored happiness, self-respect and womanly 
dignity, she too was good to look upon. There was, it is 
true, in Kate’s make-up, an independence, a strength of 
character, and an ability to stand alone, both physically 
and morally, which had been at once the cause and the 
result of her peculiar life. Not one woman in a million, 
it is safe to say, could have passed through the ordeal she 
had without being hopelessly ruined. Kate, on the con- 
trary, had been strengthened by it; but, it had imparted 
to her bearing a certain hauteur which rendered her dif- 
ficult of approach except to those she loved and respected. 
To such persons she proved herself a loyal, tender and un- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


309 

changing friend. For Dunbar, whom she had found, at a 
time when courtesy and kindness was an unknown ex- 
perience in her life, not only courteous but kind, there 
was no sacrifice however great, that she would not have 
cheerfully submitted to. And now, for Helena, who, al- 
though a woman, had comprehended and sympathized with 
her in her troubles and the brave stand she had made 
against them, she had conceived an affection of the abso- 
lutely unreasoning kind which we look for only in a dog; 
uncomplimentary as it may appear to our common human 
nature to make the comparison. So the quartette, com- 
prising Dunbar, Helena, Kate and Patrick Dillon became 
so firmly bound together as to constitute really a unit. 
They were inseparable. 

One afternoon, this "unit,” then, was returning from 
a drive in the park, when Dunbar became sensible of a 
very searching gaze directed at the occupants of his car- 
riage from another one at a short distance from them, but 
separated by several vehicles, as would naturally be the 
case in a crowded street like Piccadilly at the fashionable 
driving hour. The moment his eye caught the glance, it 
was withdrawn; and a parasol had been so placed as to 
shield the face from which the look had been directed; 
but not soon enough, however, to prevent Dunbar’s recog- 
nizing his mother and his sister Alice in their carriage. 
In order, evidently, to widen the distance between the 
two carriages, Mrs. Dunbar was now seen to give an order 
to her coachman in an excited and angry manner, as was 
her wont in speaking to servants, the immediate result 
of which was, during the temporary inattention to his 
horses occasioned by his turning his head to receive the 
order, to cause a collision with a heavily laden omnibus, 
which tore off one of the wheels of the dowager lady Dun- 
bar’s carriage ; as if it had been the wheel of an infant per- 
ambulator. Immediately a general stoppage of the entire 


3io 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


traffic of a tremendously crowded street was the result of 
the accident. The admirable police, for which London is 
so justly famous, were on hand in a jiffy, and rendered yoe- 
man service; but the smash-up was a particularly bad one, 
and the occupants of the Dunbar carriage, for a moment 
or two, were in very considerable personal danger. Added 
to the fact that the collision was in the first instance en- 
tirely the fault of the driver of this carriage, the unrea- 
sonable and arrogant bearing of Mrs. Dunbar augumented 
the difficulty to an alarming degree. As soon as this lady 
found that neither she nor her daughter had been injured, 
she began a series of screams of fright, intermingled with 
invectives of the most scathing kind addressed to pretty 
much everyone within hearing distance of her voice. She 
abused the unfortunate driver of the bus, threatening him 
with either capital punishment or imprisonment for life, 
or both, at the same time calling upon the police in very 
uncomplimentary language to arrest each and every one in 
their immediate vicinity, regardless of sex, age or possible 
or impossible responsibility for the accident. The crowd 
took all this good-naturedly at first, as a London crowd is 
wont to do under ordinary circumstances; but the limit of 
their patience was reached at last at some imprudent re- 
mark made by the infuriated gentlewoman, and matters 
began to look unpleasantly like a street row of no mean 
proportions, when Dunbar, accompanied by Dillon, arrived 
on the scene. Mrs. Dunbar’s carriage being injured hope- 
lessly beyond any temporary repair which would set it on its 
way, was now being rather roughly and unceremoniously 
removed to the side of the street by the main strength of 
several policemen, assisted by some of the men of the 
crowd. Mrs. Dunbar, not apparently seeing any real rea- 
son why the whole traffic of that portion of London should 
not be stopped by her disabled carriage remaining just 
where it was, in the middle of the street, was using the 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


311 

most unparliamentary language in support of her conten- 
tion, without much effect, it is true, in the desired direc- 
tion, but with a most appreciable one, as measured by its 
effect upon the crowd. 

“Ooray for her grace the duchess of nowhere at all,” 
shouted one young man, with a derisive grin. 

“-’Ats hoff,” cried another. “It’s the queen of the Can- 
nibal Islands, and no duchess at all. ’Ats hoff !” 

This last speaker, standing near the carriage of the un- 
fortunate lady Dunbar, accompanied his little pleasantry 
by approaching the ladies still more closely and giving Miss 
Alice a most offensive look, which might have ended in a 
still more flagrant annoyance, had not at that instant the 
fellow received a powerful and well-directed blow from a 
gentleman who had come to the ladies’ rescue. The gen- 
tleman was Dillon. The fellow, who had been knocked 
off his feet by the force of Dillon’s blow, was being cared 
for by someone in the crowd, when Dunbar came up. The 
fighting now became general and serious. Of course the 
police did their best; but they were hopelessly overpowered, 
and the crowd, from having been a perfectly good natured 
one, had by this time become a very angry one, thanks to 
the superior diplomacy of the elder Mrs. Dunbar. Then, 
again, howsoever much even an angry crowd might have 
respected the sanctity of womanhod, their attitude was at 
once changed upon the arrival of two men on the scene of 
action; and Dunbar and Dillon were being sorely pressed. 
They both fought like heroes, however, especially Dillon; 
who, cool as a cucumber, knocked his assailants about as if 
they had been children. His powerful, splendid strength 
could not have displayed itself to better advantage, while 
his bright, handsome face, clothed with a winning smile, 
however pressing his danger, was god-like; and nothing 
else. 

Matters began to assume a very serious aspect indeed by 
this time, when the ladies in the Dunbar carriage whose 


312 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


foolishness had been accountable for the whole disturb- 
ance, now did the only sensible thing they were apparently 
capable of doing — they fainted ; both of them. Seeing this, 
Dunbar called out to his companion: “Take my sister and 
carry her to our carriage, and I’ll look out for my mother. 
It’s the only thing to be done; and it can’t be done too 
quickly.” 

“Right,” said Dillon, laconically, and making a success- 
ful lunge in the direction of the carriage, by good luck 
secured the inanimate person of Alice, and lifting it lightly 
in his arms bore it in triumph away ; the crowd, as if at last 
comprehending the situation, making way for him. In a 
moment, Alice was gently laid in a place of safety in the 
Dillons’ carriage; and, in another, Mrs. Dunbar, carried 
by her son, was also safely transferred from a place of 
danger to a secure harbor. Then the gentlemen got in 
and seated themselves as best they could, having regard to 
the crowded condition incident to six persons being pressed 
into the space designed for four, drove rapidly away in the 
direction of Portland Place, amid the cheers and jeers of 
the rapidly disappearing crowd. The incident was now 
closed and the crowded street soon settled down into its 
former state, as if nothing of any particular importance 
had taken place. 

Upon arriving at Portland Place, the whole party 
alighted and the exigencies of the case made it natural for 
all of them to enter the house. In fact, the elder Mrs. 
Dunbar and Alice were hardly in a condition to have made 
any objection to such a proceeding, had they been so 
minded, as they had neither of them fully recovered con- 
sciousness, and both had to be carried bodily from the 
carriage to the house. All this naturally enough occas- 
sioned the greatest consternation and excitement on the 
parts of the younger Miss Dunbar, Mary, and the servants. 
A medical man must be sent for, of course, and all sorts 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


313 

and degrees of ‘first aid’ must be applied in the mean- 
time; each in deference to a new and original, if not en- 
tirely efficacious recipe suggested by as many would-be doc- 
tors. 

Finally, however, the ladies came to themselves, and 
Mrs. Dunbar’s usual tact accompanied her returning con- 
sciousness. “Pads,” she exclaimed to her son, in a voice 
quite loud enough for Dillon, who was standing near, to 
hear what was said, “remember, these people came to the 
house quite by accident, and no legal advantage must be 
taken of it.” 

“No fear of that,” Dunbar whispered in her ear; “but 
don’t you think it might be well to thank Mr. Dillon for 
the manly way in which he came to your assistance in your 
danger ?” 

“Oh, well, yes; but I really don’t see how he could have 
done much less, do you? Any man, who is a man, would 
have done the same. Of course I thank him, if that’s what 
he and his sister are waiting for.” 

“I think, on the contrary, mother, they are both waiting 
for nothing more nor less than to ascertain that you and 
Alice are not injured; and will be only too glad to retire 
immediately now that you have returned so fully to con- 
sciousness as to say such an ungracious thing.” 

This conversation had been for the most part conducted 
in a tone of voice too low for the Dillons to hear what 
was said; but the atmosphere was decidedly chilly, even 
without a knowledge of what was actually going on in 
the minds of the occupants of the Portland Place estab- 
lishment, and Dillon, and his sister, accompanied by Dun- 
bar and Helena, now took their departures. Accident, 
however, had been more potent than design in bringing the 
conflicting parties of the two families together; and now 
that the ice was effectually broken, all sorts of things 
might be reasonably expected to happen. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


We left Mr. Sidney Gow standing upon the porch of St. 
George’s Church, immediately after the wedding. To all 
outward appearing, certainly, his hopes of forgiveness on 
the part of his wife had proved illusory. The small crowd 
of professional marriage attendants which still hung about 
evidently saw that something unusual had taken place, 
and began a kind of personal inspection of the apparently 
stranded and deserted bridegroom; which, in his present 
state of mind, was, to say the least of it, disagreeable. 
Nor was this all: Although the newspaper reporter is not 
such an important factor in English as in American life, 
still, all matters relating to such matters as marriages 
and deaths in the upper circles of society are eagerly sought 
after by the London papers, and very soon Gow found 
himself surrounded by several inquisitive reporters, who, 
having just taken a look at the parish register in the 
church were already in possession of all the leading facts 
concerning the marriage, and were now anxious for further 
particulars. As one after another of these gentlemen of 
the press now came up and politely requested him for in- 
formation, endeavoring by every device known to the trade 
to engage him in conversation, Gow began suddenly to dis- 
cover that he had better take his departure from a place 
where every moment of delay would be considered in the 
light of valuable material for newspaper comment under 
the possible heading of “A Mysterious Marriage in High 
Life.” So, angrily dismissing the reporters with a “Noth- 
ing whatever to say for publication,” the deserted bride- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


315 

groom walked away from the church, leaving the crowd be- 
hind him. 

He was very soon walking down Regent Street towards 
Piccadilly Circus, revolving many things in his mind. His 
present position was hardly an enviable one, from any point 
of view. To be sure, his fears of an arrest in connection 
with his bill transactions had been set at rest for the time 
being. He had both Dunbar’s and Dillon’s word for that; 
and then it stood to reason, that, as matters stood now, 
a scandal of such a kind as a criminal action against him 
was to be avoided at any sacrifice. So, as far as that mat- 
ter was concerned, he felt he could walk the streets in 
almost perfect safety. But he was hopelessly in debt, and 
he was penniless. He had estranged all his former friends 
without a single exception; and, of course, he could now 
look for no more assistance from his Bankers. By far 
his most pressing and imminent danger, however, was his 
position relative to his late confederate, Sharnell. That 
gentleman could not and would not understand his latest 
move; and he, Gow, could hardly expect him to. At his 
last interview with Sharnell, matters had been advancing 
in a line with that gentleman’s hopes of a speedy realiza- 
tion of a very tidy sum of money. In such a condition of 
mind, for him to be informed upon his very next visit at 
How’s late quarters in Cutter Street that he, Gow, had 
suddenly left for parts unknown after having procured a 
marriage license, a fact well-known to his landlady, would 
only result in one thing; Sharnell would search London, 
would follow him everywhere, anywhere, until he found 
him ; and then he would kill him ! 

There was no possible good in trying to disguise or cloak 
this conclusion from his inner consciousness ; it was so , and 
that was all there was about it. By means of some of 
Dunbar’s, now Dillon’s money, he might have hoped to 
avert the impending danger. As a result of his marriage, 
he might with some justification have relied upon such aid 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


316 

and comfort from his newly-created brother-in-law; but, 
the action of the whole family party in turning their 
backs upon him at the church door had left very little solid 
ground whereon he could build such an expectation now. 
As it had turned out, Dillon had evidently no intention 
whatever of buying Dow’s fulfilment of his duty to his 
6ister. He had compelled it. He could hardly go to him 
now, and expect to get money from him on the plea of 
poverty. He had irrevocably lost any such leverage as that 
by delivering the goods in advance. 

What was he to do? With no luggage and no money, 
he could not go and take new quarters. He knew London 
far too well for that. He would not even attempt it. He 
had long since, by his sudden disappearance, lost his old 
lodgings and his belongings in the west end. To be sure, 
Dillon, at Mrs. Macklin’s urgent request had squared Gow’s 
account with that lady; but, somehow he found it extreme- 
ly difficult to return to her now, having revisited his old 
haunts in the part of the town to which he had been ac- 
customed by long association. Then again, there was 
Sharnell to be reckoned with. He might, it is true, be able 
to explain matters to that gentleman in such manner as 
to convince him of his entire good faith in what had lately 
taken place in regard to his marriage; but, he might not. 
Or still another supposition, he might appear to be able to 
explain matters, and feel secure in his conviction that he 
had done so only to find himself mistaken, and to suffer 
from Shamell’s well-known vindictiveness at a later date, 
and at some unexpected and unprotected moment. Being 
a good deal of a trickster himself, Gow was naturally 
enough upon the lookout for similar qualities in his friends. 

No, all things considered, the east end appeared quite 
as dangerous to him just now as a place of residence as the 
west end; and both were bad enough. He had reached 
Piccadilly Circus by this time, and, although still early in 
the day, he knew he was likely at any moment to jostle 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


317 


against any of his old friends. Piccadilly Circus, at any 
time of the day or night is a bad place for any man to 
remain long in who desires to remain unseen. It is one 
of the gathering places of London, and a favorite spot for 
detectives to hover about. Gow, as said before, while 
pretty confident of remaining unmolested by his friends on 
account of his late irregularities, well knew that such 
matters are sometimes taken up by the Government; and 
that in such an event his friends would be powerless to 
protect him. His old friend Inspector Evans might be 
looking about in this part of town, and snap him up 
on the off chance of doing a good turn for both himself and 
Dunbar. Once arrested, he well knew that tremendous 
pressure would be brought to bear upon the latter to push 
the prosecution against him. 

So, he passed on as quickly as possible down Waterloo 
Place into Pall Mall, then into Cockspur Street to Trafal- 
gar Square, where, in the shadow of the Nelson Monu- 
ment, he came to a halt. Here was a tolerably safe place 
for him to rest a moment or two before entering the Strand ; 
which, as everyone knows, is the most dangerous place in 
London, perhaps in the world, for a hunted man to be seen 
in. “Here,” said the unfortunate young man to himself, 
“Here I stand until I make up my mind what to do.” 

He felt in his trousers pockets, and muttered, “A few 
pieces of silver; a matter of ten or fifteen shillings, per- 
haps, between me and absolute starvation. Now, what’s 
to be done ? I can’t stay here, and I’ve no money to leave 
with. I might take a pier-head jump, get on a ship as a 
common sailor, and work my way to India or Australia, 
or the States, or South Africa; but what should I do 
without money or friends, when I got there? It would be 
far wiser to take my ‘pier-head’ jump directly into the 
river, instead of into the small boat which was to take me 
to a ship, and have the matter over with. It would be a 
disagreeable thing, a plunge into the cold filthy water of 


3 i8 


PATRICK DURBAR 


the river on such a day as this; but it would be soon over, 
and I should be at rest! My body would be found in a 
day or two, a coroner’s jury would sit upon me, I should 
be identified, and my friends notified; a sensation of a day 
or two, and then oblivion.” 

So tempting did this prospect appear to the desperate 
man for a few moments, that he was almost on the point 
of carrying it out; but then the thought of what it all 
meant came to his mind. There’s absolutely no truer say- 
ing than : “Where there is life, there’s hope.” 

Just then a picture of the woman he had so recently 
left at the church door passed before his eyes; his wife. 
Only a short few days or weeks ago and the thought of 
that woman had been hateful to him; but that was all 
changed now. From the depths of his present misery, she 
had become fair to look upon. From having appeared vastly 
his inferior, she had now become as vastly his superior. 
So rapidly does the position of our affairs relatively to each 
other change and shift in the kaleidoscope of life ! A new 
hope had already taken root and was beginning to spring 
up in his heart in regard to this woman, formerly so 
despised; now so far above him. Visions of home and 
fireside, children, friends floated before his mind. It 
might still be ; all this. It was worth working for, waiting 
for. Then the feeling of despair returned : “Yes, it might 
be; but how? An outcast and a wanderer he had become 
as a result of his own misdeeds. What guarantee of him- 
self had he that his future life would differ from his 
past? Or, if he had one, by what means could it all be 
brought about? In a few hours he must both be fed and 
be sheltered for the night, or he would starve or freeze, 
as the case might be. This eating and shelter must go on 
for months, for years, before he could accomplish much in 
the direction of his new hopes. Where was the money com- 
ing from to give him his start?” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


319 


Just then, more from force of habit than from any an- 
ticipation of results, he recommenced a careful reconnois- 
sance of his pockets, in the vain hope of coming upon some 
forgotten source of supplies. It has been already men- 
tioned that Gow had moved very rapidly from his quarters 
in the west end to those in the east end. So rapid in- 
deed had been his flight as to render it impossible for 
him to remove his luggage, even if his landlady, who had 
claims upon it for unpaid rent, had permitted it to go. 
Upon the occasion of his dressing for his wedding, he had 
been compelled to borrow a morning coat from Dillon in 
order to make a presentable appearance at the church. In 
feeling in his pockets he now came to the breast-pocket 
of this coat, discovered a letter and mechanically brought it 
to the light of day. To his astonishment it was addressed 
to himself. He opened it with a trembling hand, and 
read as follows: 

“Dear Gow: 

“You have done right for once in your life; from which I 
argue, as I both hope and pray, that you will continue to do 
right. My poor sister, as you know by experience, is a singular 
woman. What she intends to do, now she is legally married, 
God only knows; I confess I do not. I shrewdly suspect, how- 
ever, that for a time at least, she will refuse to have anything 
whatsoever to do with you; but you can never tell. Assuming my 
suspicion to be correct, I should for many reasons advise you 
to leave London for a time. Until, if you will excuse my say- 
ing so, you can, morally speaking, pull yourself together again. 

I know this will require courage, and you will need money 
to live upon until you find something to do. I enclose three 
hundred pounds in Bank notes, which please accept as an earnest 
of my kindly feeling for you, and my hope for your complete 
rehabilitation. In the meantime I bear no malice against you 
for the past; but, on the contrary, every hope and wish for 
the future. Hoping some day to meet again, I am, 

“Your brother; not only in law, but in faith, hope and charity; 


“P. Dillon.” 


320 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


To a person who has never experienced an instant transi- 
tion from despair to hope, it would be time wasted to at- 
tempt to describe the effect of these few simple words upon 
our unfortunate friend Gow. Just as he was about to re- 
nounce hope and faith in the existence of one single heart in 
the wide world that cared for or troubled itself about him, 
to receive not only such a substantial proof of interest 
as the neat little package of Bank notes he now had in 
his hands, but the kindly assurance contained in Dillon’s 
letter, was happiness indeed. It transformed him in an 
instant from a hopeless, broken man into an alert and en- 
thusiastic one. The immediate effect beyond this was to 
make him look at his watch: “Twelve thirty,” he said to 
himself joyfully. “Just time for a bite; and then we’ll see 
what’s to be done next.” 

A few steps brought him to Gatti’s Restaurant in the 
Strand. He entered by the Adelaide Street entrance, and 
sat down and ordered a substantial meal. “The last one 
in dear old England for many a day !” he said to himself, 
“so let’s make it a good ’un.” 

After dinner, he changed one of his Bank notes at the 
desk, liberally tipped the waiter, lighted a good cigar, 
called a cab, and requested the driver to take him to a gen- 
tleman’s outfitter he knew of in Oxford Street; where he 
alighted, entered the place and in a short time returned 
and re-entered his cab with a porter behind him carrying 
a very suitable portmanteau and hat-box, which were 
placed upon the top of the cab, and then Gow asked to be 
driven to Waterloo Station. As he passed rapidly through 
the well-known streets of London, he asked himself how 
long and under what changed conditions of life he should 
ever see them again. A feeling of profound melancholy 
took possession of him at first, but which soon gave place 
to those of bouyancy and hope as he approached the end 
of his drive to the railway station. In fact, by the time 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


321 

he had dismissed his cab and taken his ticket for Southamp- 
ton, he found himself for the first time in years animated 
not only with hope, but with a certain and well-defined 
object in life: “By George,” he said to himself, “it’s worth 
all it has cost to feel as I do. I’ll show my — my wife, and 
friends yet that I’m not the cad they take me for.” 

Arriving safely at Southampton, he took a room at Rad- 
ley’s Hotel, intending to remain at that comfortable old 
house long enough to give him full opportunity to mature 
his plans. In three days he found himself on one of the 
fine steamers of the Castle line bound for the diamond 
fields of South Africa. 

* **«*»«** 

Sharnell called that evening at Gow’s former lodgings 
in Cutter Street, only to be informed, with a malicious 
pleasure which Mrs. Macklin took no trouble to conceal, of 
the events of the day. She dilated upon the fact of Gow’s 
not only having found Dillon’s sister for him, but of his 
having married her. A statement which at first Sharnell 
absolutely refused to believe; but which the lady triumph- 
antly and conclusively proved by showing him an evening 
newspaper with an account of the wedding in it. Seeing 
that all this seemed to infuriate the man, Mrs. Macklin 
took her cue, and invented a lot of “extra” news, includ- 
ing an account of the splendor of the wedding at St. 
George’s Church, the splendid wedding breakfast at Dil- 
lon’s home, the large marriage settlement her late lodger 
had come into, and a hundred and one other details, which, 
with Gow not there to contradict them, were confirmation 
strong as proof of holy writ to the already jealous and sus- 
picious Sharnell. 

“By God,” he muttered to himself, but loud enough for 
the lady to hear it. “I’ll have his blood, or he’ll have mine, 
in the next twenty-four hours.” 


21 


322 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


He left Cutter Street with the firm and unalterable in- 
tention of killing his man at sight; an intention there is 
every reason to believe he would have literally carried out ; 
with the very large “if” he could have found him. But, 
as the reader is already aware of the reason why he did 
not and could not find him, it is hardly necessary to point 
out the fact that he did not succeed in his sanguinary pur- 
pose. After hanging around Dunbar’s late residence in 
Portland Place until he was requested to “move on” by 
the police, he obtained the Eversfield Koad address and 
haunted that district for some days to no purpose. Fin- 
ally, tired of this, he looked up Inspector Evans, and told 
him that Gow was in town, and not abroad as he, Evans, 
had supposed; and that it would be a great feather in the 
Inspector’s cap to lay hands upon him ; especially so, as he, 
Sharnell, had had it on very good authority that both 
Dunbar and his Bank manager, Brown, while not actually 
looking for Gow, would secretly be very glad to have him 
arrested and proceeded against by the Government; by 
this means gratifying their feelings of personal vindictive- 
ness without incurring the obloquy of taking an active part 
in the prosecution. 

It was at this point of the conversation that Inspector 
Evans exclaimed with an oath that he had seen with his 
own eyes in the vicinity of Piccadilly Circus only a few 
days ago, a man whom he could have sworn to be Gow; 
only, not expecting to see him, and, incidentally having 
no warrant for his apprehension, he had allowed him to 
proceed on his way. Now that the steed had been stolen 
from under his very eyes, so to speak, he set about doing 
his best to close the stable door; and , if possible, to find 
the missing horse. The same obstacle, however, which had 
prevented Sharnell’s finding him applied in Evans’ case; 
and in a short time both gave up the search and consoled 
themselves, each in his own manner, for the loss of one of 
the opportunities of a life-time. 


CHAPTEK XXIV. 


The two villas occupied respectively by the Dunbars and 
the Dillons would have been described in the local parlance 
of the day relating to such matters, as “large and com- 
modious dwellings, standing in their own grounds, fitted 
with all the modern conveniences and improvements and 
entirely new.” These residences adjoined each other, or 
the grounds did, and the communication between the two 
families was incessant. There was an air of ease and com- 
fort about both establishments which bore testimony to the 
good sense and the opulence of each. Dunbar was by this 
time beginning to thrive as a business man; and now, an 
opportunity occurring to use capital to advantage in the 
firm in which he was employed, he frankly communicated 
the fact to Dillon, who was only too glad to lend him 
fifty thousand pounds at a low rate of interest with which 
to purchase a partnership in the concern. So, with mod- 
erate wants and an ever-increasing income from his busi- 
ness, Dunbar was not only comfortable, but was in a fair 
way to become a very rich man in time ; and entirely upon 
his own initiative. Dillon, of course, was already im- 
mensely rich, but appeared to be perfectly satisfied to re- 
main for the present in his simple habit of life. As to the 
two ladies, Helena and Kate, in their several ways they were 
as happy and contented as possible ; and remained the very 
best of friends. So, take it for all and all, matters were 
going smoothly and prosperously with the dwellers upon 
Eversfield Eoad, Wandsworth. 


324 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


With the ladies of the Portland Place residence, how- 
ever, things were not proceeding so well. In the first place, 
the two young women, Alice and Mary, really estimable 
and lovable girls, had now been afforded an opportunity to 
judge for themselves of the man whom they had by force 
of circumstances come to look upon as an enemy of their 
household. In other words, owing to the accident described 
in a former chapter, they had come to know and to re- 
spect our friend Patrick Dillon. His gallant bravery, his 
handsome manly bearing, his strength, his gentleness, and, 
possibly his wealth, had all had their effect upon these 
simple-minded girls; in spite of what their mother might 
say. In fact, the old lady herself had somewhat changed 
her opinion of the man she had made up her mind must 
of necessity be a bad man because his interests appeared 
for the moment to be opposed to her own. 

Secondly, with a steadily diminishing income, or in 
fact, with now no steady income at all, except the two 
hundred a year already alluded to, the time had come when 
the expenses of a large establishment had grown to be al- 
together out of proportion to her means of providing for 
them. Then, in a general way, there was something un- 
canny in its effect upon the spirits of the garrison of the 
beleaguered fortress, the quiet indifference of the enemy. 
Hot for a moment yet had Dillon swerved from his ap- 
parent line of tactics. “Let the ladies alone; God bless 
them,” he said, constantly, whenever the subject was raised 
by any of the Eversfield Road contingent, which was seldom. 
“Sure, what would you and I be doing with a big house like 
that on our hands, Kitty? It will be time enough to 
think of that when the family increases; which it shows 
no signs of doin’ now, me darlin’.” 

Then he would laugh in his merry way, or wink at his 
sister, as if to say, “I have a card up my sleeve which I 
don’t mean to play just yet.” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


325 


And so matters went on, each day making the people in 
Wandsworth stronger and those in Portland Place weaker, 
until there came a time when the dowager lady Dunbar 
could support the financial strain no longer; and she was 
forced to ask for a parley with the enemy with the avowed 
purpose of arranging the terms of a capitulation. The let- 
ter designed to convey this purpose to the hostile forces 
was addressed to her son; and ran as follows: 

“My dear Pads: 

“As you never come to see us at Portland Place any more, 
thus giving me an opportunity of consulting with you, I take 
this means of calling to your attention the fact, which I really 
must say ought to have occurred to you before, that our funds 
are now absolutely exhausted. A dutiful son, who seems to be 
able to drive out in his own carriage, as you do, certainly might 
be expected to protect his old mother and his sisters from such 
scenes as they are now almost daily subjected to. Only this 
evening, Jones, the butler, had the impertinence to demand 
his wages for the twentieth time of late, using very coarse 
language, and threatening to put an execution in the house 
if not paid at once. Did you ever hear of such an outrage? 
Then, William, the coachman, has left us, and the other servants 
are in as good as an actual state of rebellion; and all over a mat- 
ter of a few months* wages. The rates and taxes are also overdue, 
and the gas and water will soon be shut off from the house, if we 
can believe the vulgar threats of the men who seem just now 
to have nothing in the world to do but to annoy us. After 
the liberal manner in which all these people have been paid 
in past years by us, it would really appear as if we deserved 
better treatment at their hands; but such is the gratitude of 
the present age! In the country, I am informed, matters are 
even worse than they are here in town. We have not dared 
to leave this house, as you well know, all summer; and have 
suffered awfully from the heat and confinement; besides the 
loneliness of having no one in town to talk to. 

“In a word, we really cannot go on as we are doing for 
another day. You must come to see me, and bring your friend 
Mr. Willon or Dillon, or whatever his name is, to talk matters 
over. Humiliating as it is to have to discuss such matters 
with a perfect stranger, as well as a person evidently not in 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


326 

ow set, I suppose it will have to be. You or he or some one 
will soon have to find us a roof to live under, as we shall soon 
lose this one, if only half the cruel things threatened U3 begin 
to take place. Please come at once, you and Mr. Dillon; but on 
no account any one else. I hope your sense of delicacy will 
suggest to you the propriety of limiting this conference to as 
small a number as possible; but then you have acted so strangely 
of late that I cannot count upon anything. 

“Your distracted mother.” 

Obedient to this summons, Dunbar and Dillon presented 
themselves at Portland Place at the appointed time, and 
found Mrs. Dunbar, supported by her two daughters, all 
in more or less apprehensive states of mind as affected by 
their individual peculiarities. Color was given to the 
lady dowager’s mental condition by the request she gave 
a servant, in a tone of voice quite loud enough for at least 
one of the gentlemen to overhear it, that the silver on the 
sideboard in the dining room should be put out of sight. 
Then, the party being seated, the conference began: “Mr. 
Dillon,” said the old gentlewoman, in a voice in which she 
would plead to a highwayman for her life, on Hampstead 
Heath, “Mr. Dillon, of course you understand that a great 
deal of the furniture in this house belonged to me long 
before we ever heard of your claim upon the property. 
There’s the parlor set, for instance, and the bed-room set 
in my chamber, and the library table, and the kitchen furni- 
ture, and the sil — ” 

“Don’t take the trouble to make an inventory of it, 
Madame,” said Dillon, with a bow and a smile which went 
to the heart of at least one of the ladies present. “The 
furniture of this house is all of it yours; and the house 
itself, as far as I am concerned, is entirely at your service, 
as long as your ladyship wishes to remain in it.” 

“There,” said Mrs. Dunbar, pettishly, and turning to her 
son. “There, Pads, what did I tell you? You see, this 
gentleman doesn’t make any claim after all. What a need- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


327 


less fright yon gave us. You see, we can remain here just 
as long as we please, and keep the furniture. Now, if you 
will be kind enough to ask Mr. Dillon, who seems to be 
a very nice gentleman, in spite of all you have said about 
him, for some money; we shall do very well. We can’t 
live here without money , you know!” 

“I shall ask Mr. Dillon for nothing of the kind, mother; 
and I’m ashamed of you for suggesting such a thing. Can’t 
you see the delicacy Mr. Dillon has displayed in allowing 
you and my sisters to remain so long in possession of his 
property, without trespassing upon his good nature any 
^nger ?” 

“There you go again !” said Mrs. Dunbar, in a whining 
tone of voice. “Can’t you allow Mr. Dillon to speak for 
himself in this matter? I’m sure he’s quite old enough 
to have an opinion of his own. Aren’t you, Mr. Dillon?” 

The last question was addressed to Mr. Dillon in the co- 
quettish manner of a spoilt young lady, who feels she has 
made a conquest and means to take every advantage of it. 

“Of course I am old enough, Mrs. Dunbar,” replied 
Dillon, cheerfully, “but I think your son has your own 
good at heart, for all that, in advising you to give up an 
establishment which is perhaps beyond your means of 
keeping it up. I repeat, however, that as far as I am con- 
cerned, you and the young ladies shall remain in undis- 
turbed possession of this house just as long as you wish to.” 

Here Alice broke in by saying, “Mamma, Pads is per- 
fectly right. Mr. Dillon is, and has been most kind to us ; 
much more so, I’m sure, than we have had any right to 
expect. His offering us what he does now is only what we 
might expect of a gentleman of his kindness and delicacy 
of feeling, and should have the effect upon us of causing us 
to emulate, rather than to take advantage of his goodness. 
If you have no pride in this matter, I assure you that both 
my sister and I have ; and that we shall not consent to al- 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


328 

lowing ourselves to be placed in a false light by you any 
longer.” 

“Hear, hear,” exclaimed Dunbar, jubilantly, while Dil- 
lon gave the girl an admiring glance which caused her to 
blush deeply. 

“I really wish you and your sister would hold your 
tongues,” said the old lady, pettishly, “while I am doing 
everything in my power to keep a roof over our heads as 
long as I can.” Then, turning to Dillon, “I hope you 
will never know, Mr. Dillon, the pain of having ungrateful 
children. It often comes to my mind what King Lear said 
about his daughters: ‘How like a serpent’s sting it is to 
have a toothless child!’ or something to that effect. My 
dear husband knew Shakespeare almost by heart, while 
now I have not the heart to quote him, even to call atten- 
tion to how my own children treat me.” And here the 
old lady wept profusely. 

“Mother,” said Alice, as sternly as a young lady could be 
expected to speak under such circumstances, “Mary and 
I have fully discussed this matter between ourselves for 
a long time past, and it has only been a sense of our 
duty to you that has restrained us from openly rebelling 
against your authority long ago. We both of us now ab- 
solutely refuse to go on for another moment living upon 
the sufferance or the kindheartedness of anyone; least of 
all, a gentleman who has already done so much for us. So, 
regretfully as I say it, both Mary and I have fully resolved 
to move from this house at once; and if you remain in it, 
you must remain alone. My sister and I shall ask Pads to 
take us to his house to-morrow, that is unless you immedi- 
ately make arrangements to secure another house and move 
into it. We have fully made up our minds to this; so there 
is not the slightest use in trying to shake our determina- 
tion.” 

“Well, I’m really ashamed of you,” said the old lady. 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


329 

between her tears. “I really thought I had someone of my 
children as a champion; but I see I am mistaken. It’s 
really too bad, Mr. Dillon; you see, we have no place to 
go to, and, of course, a dear, kind gentleman, as you’ve 
proved yourself to be, I can't help saying that , even if 
Pads did give you such a hard name; what was I going 
to say? Oh, yes, of course, you wouldn’t expect us to 
sleep in the streets, and to store all our fine furniture in 
the gutter?” 

“You shall have all the time you wish for moving, Mrs. 
Dunbar; and, as for sleeping in the streets, both you and 
the young ladies are heartily welcome at either your son’s 
or my house, with all your belongings, or with just as 
many of them as you choose to bring.” 

The upshot of the meeting was that Dunbar was au- 
thorized to select and lease a house suitable to his mother’s 
and his sisters’ wants, and, as soon as this was done to 
notify them, so that the process of moving from the larger 
into the smaller establishment might begin at once. In the 
meantime, he insisted upon paying off all the accumulated 
bills for servants’ wages and other household matters, so 
as to relieve the ladies from their most pressing embar- 
rassments. Both Dillon and Dunbar offered their houses 
as temporary residences during the move, and Mrs. Dun- 
bar was left absolutely free to take such furniture from 
both the town and country houses as she should see fit. 
Both Dunbar and his sister vigorously protested against 
this; but here Dillon was immovable. “The lady Dunbar 
shall have every stick of furniture in both houses, and wel- 
come; giving her all the time she requires in which to re- 
move it,” he said, in a voice and manner so determined 
that everyone saw the hopelessness of any appeal against 
his decision. 

So, the young men took their departure; and the next 
day Dunbar went to work to find a house for his mother 


330 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


and sisters. There being still another new vacant house 
near their own in Wandsworth, it was secured; and in 
a few weeks time, the ladies moved into their new quarters 
with all their belongings; formally giving possession of 
both the Portland Place house and the Devonshire estate to 
Dillon; and thus ended a piece of business which might 
easily have taken an unpleasant turn, to the apparent sat- 
isfaction of all concerned. 

This important matter disposed of, a certain mystery 
began to attend all of young Dillon’s movements. The 
three families, for instance, now being close neighbors, it 
would have been quite the natural thing for the Dillons 
to have called upon the newcomers, after having allowed 
sufficient time to elapse for them to settle themselves com- 
fortably. But the Dillons did nothing of the kind. Be- 
yond a rather formal but kindly note requesting to be in- 
formed if they could be of any service to them, both he and 
his sister kept themselves absolutely to themselves. Then, 
again, the Dillons, having finally come into the full pos- 
session of their estates, it would have been natural for 
them, it would appear, to at once move into their grand 
houses and change their manner of living accordingly. 
The Dillons did neither the one nor the other. They re- 
mained where they were and as they were. The house in 
Portland Place after being thoroughly cleaned, furbished 
up and refurnished, where the depredations of Mrs. Dun- 
bar had made it necessary, was placed in the charge of a 
reliable caretaker; but remained otherwise closed. The 
country place the same. 

As far as anyone in a position to judge could have ob- 
served, the Dillons preferred the quiet simple lives they 
were living; and could by no means be induced to give 
them up. It might have been assumed by the same per- 
son, the one in a position to judge, that one or the other 
of the Dillons, either Patrick or Kate, had some purpose 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


331 


to serve in remaining as they were. As Kate was married, 
it narrowed itself down to Patrick, and the object or the 
purpose might easily have been assumed to be one of the 
young ladies at the lady Dunbar’s new home. Plausible 
as this theory might appear, however, there was not one 
particle of tangible evidence to be deduced from young 
Dillon’s actions in support of it. He simply went on 
exactly as he had done before the arrival of the elder branch 
of the Dunbar family; and, whatever his designs or his 
feelings were, he kept them absolutely to himself. He 
continued to be the same quiet, unostentatious person he 
had always been; the same kindly neighbor and friend to 
the younger Dunbars, the same devoted brother to Kate; 
but this was all. The young ladies, or the old one, for the 
matter of that, of the new household, seemed to be utterly 
outside of and beyond his range of vision. 

And so matters went on, from month to month, with 
very little change ; until, in fact, the curiosity of several of 
our little community began to be visibly excited. As has 
been observed before, in this little volume, we change our 
relative positions towards our fellow men very rapidly and 
unconsciously in the complex ramifications of our modern 
life. Observe, as an illustration, the changes that had al- 
ready taken place in the relations between the Dillons and 
the Dunbars since first the latter came upon the stage of 
our drama. Owing to an apparently slight cause, the 
transfer of an estate from one to the other of these families, 
from the Dunbars having been in the ascendant, the Dillons 
had come to be so. Only a few years ago, the Dillons 
relatively to the Dunbars had been almost savages in a 
savage country; now, by the turn of a hand, by the pos- 
session of a little money, they dominated them ; and seemed 
likely to continue to do so until the next turn of the wheel 
of fate! 

It is extremely probable that Dillon was availing him- 


332 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


self of one of the great advantages of being rich; namely, 
the ability to bide his time. Whatever his intentions were, 
he had provisions and ammunition in plenty to tire or 
to starve out the beseiged party, against whom his purpose 
was directed, whomsoever it was. He was gaining daily 
in strength, in manners, in dignity ; in the nameless charm 
which the possession of great wealth has ever and will 
ever throw about a man. One evening, as he and Kate 
were alone together, he said: “Kitty, darlin, what would 
ye say if some of these days I brought home a wife ?” 

“I should say it would be the best thing in the world 
for you to do, Pat,” answered Kate. 

“D’you mean it, Kitty, or is it to oblige me ye say that ?” 

“I really mean it, Pat. I assure you I do.” 

“Then its tired ye’re gettin of me, Kitty?” 

“No, Pat, not tired ; but I think you’d make a good hus- 
band. You’d make a good woman happy.” 

“Yes, Kitty, but how about yourself ; should I make you 
unhappy? That’s the question.” 

“Not at all, Pat; and as I think I know who the lady 
is, I wish to say I highly approve of her. Sure, its Alice 
Dunbar, Pat; and a good girl she is when left to her- 
self.” 

“Yes, Kitty darlin ; but she won’t be left to herself. The 
old lady, her mother, will always be hovering about; and, 
until she changes her tune towards you, Kitty, she’ll never 
enter this house with my consent.” 

“If that’s all that stands in your way, Pat, dear, don’t 
let it stand any longer. If you’ll tame the young lady, 
I’ll undertake to tame the old one. I’ve watched you for 
a long time, Pat, and your tactics are working splendidly; 
let alone mine. The young ladies are not only respectful 
to me now when we meet, they are kind. As to the old 
lady, I rarely meet her, as she keeps to the house; but, 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


333 


one thing is certain, Pat, and that is that they are all 
dying of curiosity to know what we are thinking about.” 

“D'ye think so, Kitty?” 

“Indeed I do, Pat, I know it.” 

“But what's your ividence, Kitty?” 

“Oh, trust a woman to know what's going on in another 
woman's mind, Pat. Those ladies, all of them, expected 
we were going to call upon them as soon as they got settled ; 
to call in grand style, Pat, in order to show off our su- 
periority after coming into our own. They were all ready 
to receive us with a haughty stiffness in order to keep us 
in our places. When we did not come, Pat, at first they 
were astonished, and then annoyed. Since then, they have 
been both; and curious, besides.” 

“D'ye think so, Kitty?” 

“Indeed I do, Pat; and, more than that, I think one of 
the young ladies, I needn’t tell you which for you know 
well enough already, is cruelly grieved by this time that 
you take as little notice of her as you do.” 

“Really, Kitty?” 

“Yes, and as she's really a fine girl, Pat, take my advice 
and don't let her slip through your hands. Girls sometimes 
marry from pique, you know.” 

“So I’ve heard, Kitty.” 

“Well, then, be warned in time. Don't wait too long. 
The game you've played so far has been well played. The 
effect has been good. Don't spoil it by overdoing, Pat; 
that's all.” 

“I'm thinkin the same, Kitty darlin. So, I'll tell ye 
what to do : Just give it out to Helena that your brother 
is thinkin sariously of marryin. This'll be sure to go 
straight to the place where it will do the most good. Lave 
the rest to me, Kitty.” 

It is needless to say that this request was immediately 
carried out by Kate, with a result that the older branch of 


334 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


the Dunbar family heard of it in due time. “Well, said the 
lady dowager, “I suppose it’s only natural that the man 
should marry. It’s a thing common people like him 
do every day.” 

“He’s not so common, after all,” said Alice Dunbar, with 
asperity. “Did Helena say who the lady was, mamma?” 

“No, my child; she only said that she had had it from 
good authority that Mr. Dillon intended to marry soon; 
that’s all. I suppose it’ll be the daughter of some wealthy 
tradesman.” 

“I don’t know about that, mother. Mr. Dillon is a 
gentleman, every inch of him, and worthy of as good a 
woman as he is a man.” 

“Which means you’d like him for yourself, perhaps, my 
dear ?” 

“I only hope I shall do half as well.” 

“I’m ashamed to hear you say so, Alice, although I 
must say the man’s improved vastly in style and manner 
since he’s come into his money. Perhaps on the whole 
you might have done worse, after all.” 

“It doesn’t appear to be a matter of better or worse, 
mamma; if he’s going to marry someone else, as you say 
he is; so there’s nothing more to be said about it.” 

Although Alice probably meant exactly what she said, 
she went on thinking about it, without a doubt; as she 
had a perfect right to do. And now, by a curious fatality, 
the two young people kept running into each other as 
frequently, and with apparently as little intention as they 
had avoided doing up to this time. Wandsworth common 
was near at hand, and, as the season was Autumn and the 
heather was in bloom, Alice had taken a great fancy to 
strolling into this large open space; sometimes walking 
about, and sometimes sitting upon one of the benches 
the place afforded. One evening, not long after the news 
of young Dillon’s matrimonial intentions had reached her 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


335 

ear, Alice was sitting quietly in the park engaged too 
deeply in her own thoughts, beyond a doubt, to notice 
the erect form of a young man seated on a bench nearby. 
The shades of evening had begun to draw in, and the 
gloaming, so suggestive to lonely hearts of home and fire- 
side and companionship, was at hand. Perhaps this 
circumstance prevented Alice from seeing the young man, 
or, if not prevented, made it possible for her to see him 
and to unconsciously merge him into the setting of the 
scene which was being enacted in her mind. 

However it was, or however long this situation of affairs 
might have continued, if left to itself, young Dillon was the 
first to break the spell and to attempt to establish a connec- 
tion between their two spheres of consciousness. The 
first thing Alice knew, the young man was standing before 
her, his hat in his hand, after a respectful salutation, in 
which interest, mirth and seriousness were combined in 
about equal proportions. Possibly, if a fourth quality 
was to be noticed, it would have taken the form of de- 
termination ; for certain it was that Dillon, both in appear- 
ance and in his bearing, suggested to the mind of the 
observer a man bent upon the accomplishment of a fixed 
purpose, and animated by an intention to do or die in 
attaining it. There was a noticeable awkwardness in his 
manner of approach, it was true; but it was of the dan- 
gerous and determined kind which is said to make an un- 
skilful swordsman quite as dangerous as a skilful one; 
only supposing the former to be thoroughly aroused and 
bent upon mischief. Such, in a word, was the impression 
the young man’s attitude made upon Alice; heightened, 
undoubtedly, by what she had already both seen and heard 
of him. “Miss Dunbar,” he said, with a smile, “would 
you grant me the favor of a few words with you, a few 
words I have been endeavoring to find an opportunity to 
say for some time?” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


336 

Before the young lady could by any possibility find time 
to answer, Dillon had seated himself beside her on the 
bench. Position is everything in planning an assault. 
Dillon had secured his position, and it was a good one. 
Then, evidently assuming an affirmative answer to his 
request, he began at once to say what he had to say; thus 
giving her really no time in which to hesitate, or to 
refuse. “Miss Dunbar,” he went on, “You must excuse an 
uncouth western boy’s lack of manners. You see, we really 
have very little time to acquire the polish that your kind of 
life requires of you. When we untutored savages have 
anything to say, or when we see anything we want, we 
are like children; we speak up naturally and without the 
restraint which the conventionality of your kind of life 
would demand. This must be my apology, Miss Dunbar, 
for speaking and acting as I do; I have something to say, 
and I want something. So, please listen, and don’t be 
offended.” 

There was a quality in the young man’s voice and man- 
ner, as he said this, which disarmed any possible suspicion 
as to the highmindedness of his intentions. He was re- 
spectful without being servile, enthusiastic without in the 
least losing control of himself, firm without being aggres- 
sive ; but, above all, there was that invincible lighthearted- 
ness and indifference to results which carries a man suc- 
cessfully through all kinds of dangers and difficulties. 
There was also a tone of command in his attitude which 
could by no means have escaped the observation of the per- 
son to whom he was addressing himself, be it man or 
woman. “How, Miss Dunbar,” he went on, “fate has a 
good deal to do with the direction of our lives, after all. 
Fate has brought about changes in your and in my life in 
the past few months which would seem impossible if they 
were not actually true, as both you and I know them 
to be. Who could have for seen a year ago, when I was 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


337 


some thousands of miles away from here and had never 
even heard of your existence, that we should be sitting 
together in this place with our destinies already pretty 
closely connected, and, I trust to be still more so?” 

Alice gave a rather startled look now, as Dillon began to 
give pretty certain indications as to whither his remarks 
were tending ; but he gave her a reassuring look, and went 
on : “You see, Miss Dunbar, with no possible intention on 
my part, I have been the cause of great changes in your 
life and that of your family. It is of very little use to 
tell you how much I regret all this; but I do regret it, 
just the same. It has been by no means a pleasant thing 
for me to become rich by making your family poor; but 
that is what I have done. My regret would have been 
much less keen if I had had men alone to deal with in this 
matter ; but here again I had no choice. A man, when ad- 
versity overtakes him, can cope with the world; and often 
is the better for it. It’s a different thing altogether with 
women, and especially women brought up to luxury ; as you 
and yours have been. Now, Miss Dunbar, far from sup- 
posing for a moment that I have anything worth consider- 
ing to offer you in return for all the loss I have put you 
to, I know only too well how a woman of your personal 
dignity would resent the mere mention of such a thing. 
Even to have refused to accept the estate which by an 
accident has become legally mine, or now, having accepted 
it, to offer to return it to you, would, from your point of 
view, I can well understand be equally insulting. There 
is one, thing, however, that I can do, that any man in this 
world can do, and which no one can prevent his doing; I 
can feel for, I can respect, I can love the woman I have 
injured! Whether or no I have any chance of winning 
her love in return, or whether I shall offend by declaring 
my love, is a matter which rests with her alone. There 
can be no real offence, however, where none is intended; 


22 


PATRICK DURBAR 


338 

and there are situations in life, when, from the nature 
of the case itself, a frank declaration like mine, even if 
refused, can by no means be construed into an offence 
by the person to whom it is addressed. So, now. Miss Dun- 
bar, I have the honor to offer you my love, my respect, 
my duty and my fortune; not in return for what I have 
been the means of depriving you of, but because, what- 
ever had been our relative positions in life, I should have 
loved, respected and honored you for yourself; and your- 
self alone” 

“But I have been only lately informed that you had 
already made a marriage for yourself, Mr. Dillon.” 

“You were correctly informed, Miss Dunbar.” 

“But how does this statement agree with your proposal 
to me ?” 

“Simply because you were the lady of my choice, Miss 
Dunbar; that’s all.” 

“That was assuming a good deal, it strikes me, Mr. 
Dillon; much more than I am inclined to overlook. A 
woman doesn’t care to be disposed of without her knowl- 
edge or consent.” 

“I am aware of that, Miss Dunbar; and that was my 
reason for not mentioning the lady’s name to anyone but 
yourself. It is true, perfectly true, that I have been con- 
templating marriage for some time. I shall go on contem- 
plating it until I actually accomplish it, and I shall never 
marry anyone but yourself; so, the sooner you give your 
consent, the sooner you’ll get me out of the bad habit 
I’ve fallen into to wanting to marry above my station in 
life; which I believe is a serious offence in itself in this 
country.” 

“But I shall have to obtain the consent of my family, 
Mr. Dillon; and I fear there will be opposition. I know 
there will be on the part of my mother.” 

“I have already obtained the full approval of your 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


339 


brother. Miss Dunbar; who is, I believe, the head of the 
family. If he has carried out his promise to me, he has 
by this time spoken of the matter to your mother, and 
obtained her formal consent to our union, if not her un- 
qualified approval. That leaves only your sister to be dis- 
posed of, Miss Dunbar; and, of course, yourself.” 

“Well, as so many of my family appear to have settled 
the matter for me, I should be obstinate indeed to hold 
out; and now, in consenting, I tell you frankly I only fol- 
low out the dictates of my own heart, for I have loved you 
since first we met!” 

And now the shadows of the night having gathered in 
sufficiently to make the proceeding a perfectly safe and 
proper one, the young people drew close together, ex- 
changed a kiss, and sat long into the night entwined in 
each others 3 arms! 


CHAPTER XXV. 


Some six or seven years after the events narrated in the 
preceding chapters, a four-wheeler drove up to the Metro- 
pole Hotel in Northumberland Avenue, one day, with a 
rather heavy top-hamper of luggage; a gentleman of dis- 
tinguished appearance alighted, and having requested the 
uniformed head porter of the hotel to pay his cab fare and 
look after his luggage; entered, and registering himself 
at the clerk’s office, asked for a comfortable suite of rooms 
with all the air of a man accustomed not only to good liv- 
ing but to being promptly and respectfully waited upon. 
Having been obsequiously shown to his apartments and 
his luggage also having been safely stowed, the gentleman 
proceeded to make himself comfortable. That is to say, 
he got into a comfortable smoking jacket, lighted a cigar 
and ensconed himself in an easy chair. “Dear old Eng- 
land, again!” he said to himself, “and how precisely it 
looks as I left it years ago. Same old London, same old 
fog, same old faces about, grown a little older, same old 
bustle, griminess, dulness, same old smallness, bigness and 
all the other contrarieties; but, the same dear old England 
we all love to return to after an absence and to find just 
as we left it. No other place like it in the world for that. 
And now, let us see. What’s the first thing to be done? 
Ah yes, the bills.” 

At this our friend rang for writing materials, and, after 
a long and somewhat painful reflection, if the thoughtful 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


34i 

expression of his face could be relied upon as an indica- 
tion, wrote as follows: 

“My dear Dunbar: 

“Some years ago you paid some bills you should not have 
been called upon to pay. I should have paid them, and not 
you. I am in funds, and should very much like to discharge 
my conscience of a burden it has carried for a long, long time. 
If you will do me the favor, therefore, to reckon up the amount 
due you, with interest to date, on those acceptances, I will 
gladly remit the amount; and then, if you will, you may re- 
turn me the bills to my hotel. You will confer a favor upon 
me if you will not mention having heard from me, except to 
Dillon, to whom I am writing by the same mail as the one by 
which you will receive this. As Her Majesty has honored me 
by adding a handle to my name in recognition of some trifling 
service I was in a position to render lately in South Africa, 
you may address me now as Sir Sidney Gow. 

“Yours sincerely, 

“S. G.” 

The other letter was addressed to Patrick Dillon, Esq., 
and ran: 

“My dear Dillon: 

“Inclosed I beg to hand you Bank of England Notes for £300, 
the amount of a loan you were good enough to make me some 
years ago; and which was of inestimable value to me at the 
time. Thanking you with all my heart for your kindness, I 
beg to remain, 

“Yours faithfully, 

“Sidney Gow.” 

“There,” he said to himself, as he rang for the waiter 
to post his letters, “I am glad to have those worries off 
my mind.” 

Then he settled down again to resume his interrupted 
lucubrations. “And now, what next?” he asked himself. 
“Of course both Dunbar and Dillon will tell all the others 
of my return to England. I never knew either man or 
woman who could keep a secret of that kind to themselves. 
In fact its one of the kind you request a person to keep 


342 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


just because you want it told in certain quarters. Well, 
it will be told anyway; the newspapers will never let 
me alone, to begin with. The arrival of Sir Sidney Gow 
in London, after “his brilliant and distinguished career in 
the service of his country,” plus a fine fortune picked up in 
the gold fields, will be nuts for the reporters. Let it be so. 
I can’t truly say I object, because I don’t. It’s a long way 
better to return as I do than to have left as I did. There 
can be no possible doubt about that. And then Kate. Ah, 
that’s another matter altogether. Let me see ; I’ve thought 
that matter over so much during the past years and turned 
and twisted it into so many shapes that I scarcely know 
where I left it. Her last words as we stood on the church 
porch were, as I recollect them, “I shall never trouble you, 
nor expect you to trouble me.” That was a pretty straight 
tip. There was no misunderstanding it, nor getting away 
from it. I was to make an honest woman of her by keeping 
my promise to her; that was all that was expected of me. 
There was neither love nor regret in her eyes as I saw 
them last; but then why should there have been? I had 
treated her like a dog; worse than a dog. And how is it 
now? Has she changed in her feelings towards me as I 
have changed? If so, how can I best find it out without 
humiliating myself? Sir Sidney Gow, with a fine fortune, 
a brilliant record behind him and a future before him, is 
a very different person from the poor, hunted Sidney Gow 
who was glad enough to slink out of London upon almost 
any terms seven years ago. I love her now, curiously 
enough ; now that I can’t have her. She is a proud woman ; 
she will never give any sign. The approach will have to 
be made by me, if it is made at all; and, if she is of 
the same mind as when last I saw her, there will be very 
little hope of a reconciliation, very little indeed. And yet, 
something must be done. I am legally bound to her for 
life, and she to me. We are both young, and, in the course 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


343 


of events destined for long lives; long, lonely lives, if we 
remain apart. It might be all so different if I only knew 
what was going on in her mind. Ah, that’s the question, 
to find out.” 

And then Sir Sidney lapsed into a brown study, and 
puffed away at his cigar. The next day, instead of a let- 
ter, he received a visit from Dunbar. The little matter 
of the bills was soon arranged between them, by Gow’s giv- 
ing a cheque upon his bankers for the full amount, with 
interest added to date; the latter in the face of Dun- 
bar’s vigorous protest. This matter disposed of, the two 
men lapsed into a rather awkward silence for a while. 
Doubtless during it a good many unpleasant memories came 
to the minds of both of them. “And what are your plans 
now. Sir Sidney?” finally asked Dunbar. 

“I really have none, Dunbar,” he answered rather sadly. 
“I am in rather a singular position, you see. I am still 
young, and yet I’ve already got what most men far older 
than I find themselves striving for. I happened by the 
merest chance to arrive in South Africa at a time when 
fortunes were rapidly and easily made there. Then the 
troubles in the Transvaal came on, and I was fortunate 
enough to be able to render some service to her Majesty, 
and she gave me a title. There really isn’t much more 
than those two things in the world for an Englishman to 
live for, now is there?” 

“Um, I don’t know about that , Sir Sidney.” 

“For you, yes; but for me, no.” 

Both men recognized the fact that they were at the edge 
of a difficult and dangerous subject, and lapsed into silence 
again. Suddenly an idea seemed to strike Gow, as a look 
of interest came into his face quite at variance with his 
apparent mental attitude up to this time. “Dunbar,” he 
said, earnestly, “you and I have been old friends ; and now, 
I having in a measure repaired any wrong I may have done 


344 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


you, I trust we are friends again. Why should I not come 
to you for advice in the matter which is at present nearest 
my heart?” 

“There is no reason, my dear Gow,” responded Dunbar, 
heartily. “I shall be only too glad to assist you in any 
way I can; so what is it?” 

“I wish to ascertain my wife’s feeling for me, Dunbar. 
How should I go about it to the best advantage. To start 
with, have you any idea how she is disposed towards me ?” 

“No, my dear friend, I have not. Your wife, now lady 
Sidney Gow, is a singular woman ; and no less singular now 
than formerly. She gives very little clue to her real state of 
mind by any outward demonstration, as you well know.” 

“Is she aware that I am in England?” 

“Yes; the papers were full of news concerning you this 
morning. You requested me to say nothing to anyone 
about your arrival, and I followed your instructions im- 
plicity. But, I could hardly sequestrate the morning 
papers from my family, you know ; and it would have been 
worse than useless to try.” 

“Yes, I see. Well, how do they take the news?” 

“I can answer for all but the person you are most in- 
terested in. All the rest are simply delighted, and begged 
me to offer you their most sincere felicitations; which I 
do.” 

“And my wife?” 

“It is impossible to tell. I watched the expression of 
her face closely; but, beyond a slightly heightened color 
and a quickening of her breath, no one could have detected 
a sign of any kind. Naturally, we could hardly discuss 
the subject in her presence unless she gave us some en- 
couragement to do so, which she did not. My wife, Helena, 
tried to get some expression of feeling from lady Sidney 
when they were alone, but utterly failed. And so the 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


345 

matter stands at present. I wish I could report different- 
ly ; but I can’t.” 

“Thank you, Dunbar. I appreciate your frankness and 
your delicacy.” 

There was another pause, during which each of the men 
was evidently thinking things he did not care to say to 
the other. To put a proud man in the humiliating posi- 
tion of being compelled to prove that he is worthy to con- 
sort with his wife is one thing; to discuss it is quite an- 
other. With the very best intentions in the world, Dun- 
bar was neither in a position to offer his friend advice, nor 
to give him information. While, as to Glow, he could with 
the greatest difficulty bring himself to the point of even 
alluding in the vaguest manner to the relations, or rather 
the lack of relations existing between himself and his 
wife; let alone going into details or placing himself in the 
position of soliciting that which he was legally, at least, 
in a position to demand. So, the conversation having 
reached a point where it was difficult to go any farther, 
Dunbar took his leave. 

Later in the day Dillon called ; but with him it was still 
more difficult to speak frankly than with Dunbar. A man 
might come to forgive the woman he had married at the 
point of a pistol, nay, as in Gow’s case, he might even come 
to love her; but to ever come to feeling entirely at ease in 
the company of the man who had held the pistol, that 
was a little more than could be expected. So, Dillon 
having welcomed his brother-in-law back to England, and 
complimented him upon his success in the world, discreetly 
allowed all other matters to take care of themselves. He 
did, however, speak of his own marriage to Alice Dunbar, 
which had taken place during Gow’s absence, and of Dun- 
bar’s astounding success as a business man, and of his 
rapidly increasing wealth: “He’s a richer man than I am 
now, by the powers”; he said, “and there’s no knowing 


PATRICK DVNBAR 


346 

where it’ll all end. Then his wife’s property in the States 
had risen tremendously; so she’s rich in her own right, 
God bless her. And now you’re a baronet, and rich into 
the bargain”; Dillon went on, cheerily, “and poor Kate 
is lady Gow. Well, well, who’d ’a thought it, seven years 
ago?” 

All this was very well ; but it didn’t serve to change the 
viewpoint very much of a lonely man sick and tired of 
wandering, and anxious for home and rest and family and 
the love of his wife. Still, it was perhaps all he could 
expect, and he had to make the best of it. In the course 
of the conversation he had gained several other items of 
information besides those already mentioned. For in- 
stance, he had found out that after living several years 
at Wandsworth, in simple, unostentatious style, until in 
fact Dunbar had become a rich man as the result of his 
own endeavors, the latter had repurchased from Dillon his 
former residence in Portland Place and his country place 
in Devonshire. Dillon had bought a fine house near Dun- 
bar’s, and the two families had finally moved into their 
respective homes. Dunbar and Helena, and by this time 
three children, constituting one family, Dillon, Alice, his 
wife, and the lady dowager Dunbar and Mary the other. 
This left Mrs., now lady Gow, to be accounted for; and 
it was her determined obstinacy in refusing to move that 
had deterred the others from doing so for a long time. 
Both families, Dillon’s and Dunbar’s, had begged her to 
make her home with them; but she had persistently and 
pointedly declined. “My own little home is quite good 
enough for me,” she always said in answer to such invita- 
tions. “I have no desire for fashionable life, and I should 
only be in the way in a family that has. So, let me alone, 
and don’t make me uncomfortable by feeling that I am a 
dog in the manger ; as I certainly shall if you remain here 
in Wandsworth any longer on my account.” 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


347 


As Kate was now a rich woman in her own right, Dillon 
having insisted upon dividing his inheritance with her, 
there was no real reason why she should not live as she 
pleased, and a good many real ones why she should. So, fin- 
ally, it was arranged that Kate, with a trusty man servant 
or two to protect her and several maid servants to wait upon 
her, should remain as she was; that is the sole tenant of 
a very comfortable and roomy house in the suburbs, with 
a tidy bit of ground about it, and everything anyone could 
really desire in the way of creature comforts. Here she 
took to reading, caring for her garden, visiting a few peo- 
ple in distress, and, in a word, leading her own life in 
her own way, unmolested and unwilling to be molested by 
the world. She never referred, even to her brother, to her 
past history or to her future plans. She appeared to be 
strong enough to stand alone; and, as she insisted upon 
doing so, there was nothing to be said or done to prevent 
her. 

All this had been dropped by Dillon in a cheery, off-hand 
manner during his conversation with Gow; possibly with 
some intention of answering questions before they were 
asked, and, possibly, with no intention at all; but, in any 
case, in a friendly, kindly manner, which went far towards 
soothing whatever bitterness there might be remaining be- 
tween the two men, and laying a foundation for a real 
and lasting friendship in the future. In taking his de- 
parture, Dillon had warmly pressed his brother-in-law's 
hand, and invited him cordially in his own and his wife’s 
name to visit them at their home. Dunbar had extended 
the same hospitality; but Gow had rather pointedly de- 
clined it in both instances. “No,” he said to himself, when 
alone, “I’ll be accepted by the whole family, or by no part 
of it. A pretty figure I should cut hanging about either 
Dunbar’s or Dillon’s house on sufferance, or as if I were 
trying to get at my wife through their intercession. No 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


348 

fear. Lady Gow and I will make it up between us first, or 
we’ll find we can’t make it up; and then it will be time 
enough to see about the others !” 

So Gow drew within himself and quietly awaited events. 
He occupied and amused himself as best he could in the 
meantime. For one thing, he requested lord Yennor to 
call upon him at his apartments for the purpose of re- 
moving his name from the bills he, Gow, had paid, and 
of seeing them finally disposed of by being reduced to ashes. 
As Yennor had had half of the proceeds of these bills as a 
compensation for having had them discounted, this action 
of Gow’s in releasing his name and destroying the bills 
without asking him for the return of a penny struck Yen- 
nor as being particularly magnanimous : with a result that 
the old friendship between the men, interrupted as has 
been seen in a former chapter, was renewed ; and his lord- 
ship became a constant visitor at his rooms. 

This was about the position of affairs when one eve- 
ning, in response to a knock on his door, a waiter entered 
and informed Gow that a man was waiting to see him down 
stairs who refused to send up his name, but who said his 
business was important. Gow requested the waiter to 
show the man up; and, in a few moments his old friend, 
Sharnell, dirtier, shabbier and older than he had last seen 
him, entered the apartment. He looked about the luxuri- 
ously furnished room with a .half -sneering, half incredu- 
lous expression, as if both doubting the evidence of his 
senses and yet envying the man who could furnish such 
evidence. “Seems to me you’ve got up a peg or two in the 
world, Gow, since we last met,” said the man in a surley 
tone as he helped himself unasked to a chair, and laid his 
shabby hat upon the table. 

“Sir Sidney Gow, if you please, my friend,” said Gow, 
quietly, “and now will you kindly state your business as 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


349 

speedily as possible, and then relieve me from your pres- 
ence; as I have other matters to attend to.” 

Sharnell’s answer was to coolly take a very disreputable 
brierwood pipe from his pocket, fill it with tobacco, light it 
and begin to smoke. “I shall state my business just as 
soon and no sooner than I find it convenient to do so, Gow ” 
he said in an angry voice. As Gow was smoking at the 
time himself, he could hardly object to this; and then, 
having fully expected to run against this man, he had 
considered it prudent to let him have his say and be done 
with it. After a short pause, during which Sharnell 
glared at Gow, while the latter assumed an attitude of 
utter indifference mingled with resignation, the man began : 
“I suppose all this ‘Sir Sidney Gow* business, and this 
puttin'’ up at a first-class hotel will deceive some of your 
old friends, but it won’t go down with me.” 

“Ah ?” said Gow. 

“No, not by a damned sight. Its a plant, pure and 
simple, to get some fool who don’t know you as well as I 
do, on toast; but, one thing is sure, and that is that you 
can’t stop here even for a few weeks, as you’ve been doin’, 
on wind. There must be some money flyin’ about. So, 
I’ll trouble you for a loan of, well, say twenty pounds, 
‘Sir Sidney,’ if you please; just as a starter. A man with 
a ‘Sir’ attached to his name certainly ought to have twenty 
pounds about him at any time.” 

“Yes, I think I have as much as that,” said Gow, mod- 
estly taking a package of crisp Bank of England notes from 
his wallet, which must have run into several hundred 
pounds. “Yes, I’m sure I have twenty pounds. What 
then ?” 

“What then? damn you, do you think you can flash 
money in my face like that, you jail bird ? Hand me those 
notes, all of them, at once; or, by God, I’ll put you in a place 


350 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


where they’ll do you but little good for seven or eight years 
at least. Hand ’em over, d’ye hear?” 

“Yes, I hear, and I refuse to do anything of the kind. 
And now, sir, if that is all your business, kindly take 
yourself off; if not, state the rest of it in as few words 
as possible, and then go.” 

“What, you refuse? Where’s my share of the spoils in 
that Dillon matter. I’d like to know? I hear you’ve mar- 
ried his sister. Where do I come in on that deal ?” 

“I really don’t know.” 

“You don’t know, and yet you left me in the lurch some 
six or seven years ago after a solemn agreement to divide 
with me, and now you return apparently at least, rollin’ 
in wealth. Where did you get it?” 

“That is none of your business, sir, and I requested you 
to state your own business, and not mine.” 

“Do you recollect what I said I’d do to you, you dog?” 
asked the man, working himself into a towering passion. 

“I am not here to answer foolish questions, my man,” 
said Gow, sternly, and rising from his chair, “if this is 
all you have to say, leave the room at once; or I ring the 
bell to have you ejected from the hotel.” 

“Ring, if you dare; damn you.” 

Gow’s answer was to push the electric bell, and to quietly 
remain standing while awaiting the answer. This pro- 
ceeding evidently was a surprise to Sharnell and discon- 
certed him. “Come,” he said, in a half, conciliatory man- 
ner, “come, Gow, you know this isn’t a square deal. You 
certainly have made something out of this Dillon matter. 
Give me a couple of hundred pounds and I’ll call it square. 
Come, now.” 

“I shall not give you one cent. You are a blackmailer, 
a bully and a thief. I owe you nothing, and have never 
profited to the extent of a penny through my dealing with 
you. So, leave my apartment, at once, and never dare to 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


351 

enter it again; for, if you do, Fll have you pitched into 
the street.” 

“Give me a hundred, then. I’m really ’ard up, and need 
it. Give me a hun — ” 

At this moment approaching footsteps were heard in the 
passage outside. Gow was half inclined to give the man a 
hundred pounds to be quit of him, but restrained the im- 
pulse. A somewhat extensive experience with just such 
people as Shamell in the past had taught him that the 
least evidence of fear or weakness in a blackmailing case 
like the present one was fatal. He must stand his ground 
or he would furnish ground for his enemy to stand upon, 
and very much to his own cost. “I shall not give you one 
cent, as I told you before; now go!” 

“And, by God, Fll follow you to the ends of the earth 
until I kill you, you dog; and don’t you think I won’t.” 

In the middle of this sentence the door of the apartment 
had opened and lord Vennor, followed by the waiter had 
entered the room, although Sharnell in the fury he had 
attained had evidently not heard them. Gow nodded to 
Vennor, and then said to the waiter: “Waiter, show this 
man to the door, and request the hall porter, if he ever 
comes here to annoy me again, to hand him over to the 
police. I will make a charge against him.” 

Then, turning to Vennor he said : “My lord, kindly take 
a good look at this man’s face, so as to be able to identify 
him again in case of need. He has been attempting to 
blackmail me, and has ended by threatening my life. If 
anything happens to me, you will know who is responsible 
for it.” 

By this time, Sharnell had considered it the part of 
prudence to retire, which he did in tolerably good order, 
considering the decisive defeat he had encountered; and 
Sir Sidney and his friend were left alone in the apart- 
ment. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

And so matters went on for some weeks, Gow each day be- 
coming more enthusiastically in love with his wife, but 
also each day becoming more despondent of his ultimate 
success in winning her. From both Dunbar and Dillon he 
occasionally heard of her as apparently, if not happy, at 
least, contented; and as keeping herself fully occupied in 
the direction of her household affairs, her reading, and 
probably her charities; as of late she had been a good 
deal away from home. She never either questioned or 
allowed herself to be questioned in regard to any matters 
connected howsoever remotely with her relations with 
Gow\ The subject of her past life and of her marriage had 
long been dropped as far as any discussion of it was con- 
cerned when she was present, and she was not a woman 
whom anyone cared to rouse from the calm state of mind 
she now seemed to be in. Shortly after Alice’s marriage 
with Dillon, there had been an encounter between Kate 
and the lady dowager Dunbar, in which the latter had for 
once more than found her match. Kate had evidently made 
up her mind that, in view of the close relationship which 
was about to be established between them by this mar- 
riage, it would be well for her to settle for once and all 
the exact limit of her endurance of lady Dunbar’s peculiar 
tactics as far as they related to herself. Carrying out this 
determination she had calmly waited for an occasion to 
arise when the customary abuse of the older woman had 
reached a point when it would be folly to stand it any 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


353 


longer, and then, from the vantage ground of a long and 
patient self-restraint, she had opened her batteries upon 
her. She had selected an opportunity for doing this after 
the marriage had been celebrated, so that her action could 
in no wise affect it, and, also, when pretty much all the 
members of both families were present to witness the en- 
gagement. It ended in an unqualified defeat, an utter 
rout, in fact, of the forces under command of the lady 
dowager; as Kate had evidently intended it should do 
from the start. Dillon, who naturally enough, knew some- 
thing of the possibilities of his sister’s temper, when fully 
aroused, admitted that he had never for a moment dreamt 
of the apparently unlimited resources of arms and equip- 
ment she showed herself to be possessed of upon this mem- 
orable occasion. The old lady, who evidently felt she had 
a reputation to sustain as a warrior and an old campaigner, 
had put forth all her powers at the beginning of the battle ; 
but, before it was half over, she struck her colors, never to 
be hoisted again; for they never were. The disastrous de- 
feat, however, broke the old lady’s spirit; and she was 
never the same person after it. She had met her master 
for the first time in her life, and life seemed to possess 
very little attraction for her afterwards. She lived long 
enough to make herself thoroughly uncomfortable to the 
persons immediately about her, but to none others, for 
some years, and then she died; lamented about as much 
as she deserved to be. Kate, after her victory, never was 
called upon to assert herself again. She had shown what 
she could do, and that was enough. 

So Gow occupied himself as well as he could with his 
affairs, spent some of his time at his club and in calling 
upon a few of his former friends who were now glad to re- 
new acquaintance with him in his prosperity ; but, in spite 
of all he could do he was restless and unhappy. His wealth 
and position were as nought to him compared with the 


354 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


possibilities of a happy home life, a haven of rest after his 
long and arduous wanderings. The time was winter, and 
the usual fog hung over London. This fact, possibly, 
added weight to the already heavy burden of loneliness he 
was called upon to bear. The fog had its advantages, 
however ; for, under its cover and the protection of a slight- 
ly changed cut of his beard, he occasionally ventured upon 
a lonely walk to Wandsworth; where, having ascertained 
the location of his wife’s residence, he would walk up and 
down the street before it long into the night, wondering 
what Kate was doing inside. Sometimes he would see her 
shadow outlined upon the closed window shades as she 
rose from her chair and crossed the room upon some errand. 
What was she thinking about ? Did a thought of him have 
a dwelling place in her mind? Was there anything in the 
so-called telepathy by which he could establish a connec- 
tion between their minds? He would try the experiment, 
at least, and will that she should receive and answer the 
message of love and contrition he sent her from the very 
bottom of his heart. But no answer came of any kind. At 
times he would wait until his wife retired for the night; 
watch the lights as they were extinguished, one by one in 
the lower rooms of the house, and then see a light appear 
in the room in the upper story which he assumed to be her’s. 
There he would see her figure outlined again on the window 
shade, partly undressed, as she prepared herself for the 
night. Then he would picture to himself all the sweet 
and sacred rights which a happy marriage gave a man 
relatively to his wife. The delight of the close companion- 
ship of married life with a beautiful and charming woman. 
The warmth and glow of the cosy library fireside, the un- 
interrupted tete-a-tete in the bedroom as, while retiring 
for the night, they discussed all kinds of matters interest- 
ing to themselves with a freedom and abandon which mar- 
riage alone can give. The feeling of proprietorship a man 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


355 


has in his wife never comes to him so strongly as when for 
any reason he has lost or forfeited it. When all is well 
between them, there is so much above and beyond this feel- 
ing of ownership that it is in a measure merged and par- 
tially lost in other things; but it is safe to say that a wo- 
man’s love of all the treasures in this world is the one a man 
is willing to take, or at any rate, does take the greatest 
chances of losing, when he has it; and regrets the most 
when he has lost it! It was certainly so with Gow. 
When he had possessed his wife’s love he had despised it 
and allowed it to become lost to him. Now, all had 
changed. The kisses which had been so cheap and so plenti- 
ful then, had become the costliest, the rarest, the most 
desired things in the world; the fragrance of her hair and 
body sweeter than violets ! Her smile, more precious than 
rubies. 

And so the poor homeless wanderer would pace up and 
down for hours at a time during the night watches before 
the home which should have been his own, but for his 
folly. Sometimes a feeling of open rebellion would enter 
his heart. “She is my wife,” he would say to himself, “and 
I’ll go to her and claim her, vi et armis. What right has 
she to ignore me the way she does, and to keep me out of 
the house I have as much right as she to enter?” 

Then his pride would step in and suggest that a woman 
who had to be bullied into loving her husband would hard- 
ly love him in the manner that he, sir Sidney Gow, wished 
to be loved. Then again, there was the consciousness of 
his own failure to comprehend his wife, arising partly out 
of the difference of sex, but more particularly in his case, 
the difference of nationality between himself and his wife. 
His conception of the rights of a British husband, he well 
knew by what he had seen, not only of his wife but of 
his wife’s brother, would go but a very short way in assert- 
ing themselves in this case. From what he had seen of 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


356 

her personal courage, her indefatigable perseverance in the 
pursuit of any object she had set before her as worthy of 
accomplishment, her utter disregard of all the convention- 
alities of life, when a matter of principle was involved, he 
well knew he should make but little headway in the direc- 
tion of compelling his wife to any course of action what- 
ever. So, he would drop all these ideas as impracticable, and 
as unworthy of his dignity as a man ; and go on in his hope- 
less pursuit of his lost happiness, pitying himself intensely, 
and viewing himself a good deal in the light of an injured 
man and a martyr ; as men in his position are wont to do. 

And now another incident occurred to emphasize his 
lonely condition, and to cause him to feel more “out in the 
cold” than ever. It has been said that lord Vennor, since 
the adjustment of their financial relations, had become 
a constant visitor at Gow’s apartments. On the occasion 
of several of these visits, he had met both Dunbar and Dil- 
lon, and had come to be on terms of intimacy with both of 
them. As one thing leads to another in such relationships, 
he had been asked to visit at the houses of both of these 
men; and had done so. At Dunbar’s house he had met 
Mary Dunbar, and had taken a violent fancy to her from 
the start. The liking, it turned out, was mutual; and, 
there being no real obstacle in the way, the mutual liking 
soon developed into mutual love, and lord Yennor made 
a formal offer of his hand to Mary Dunbar. He was not 
rich ; but he was of a lovable disposition, handsome, young, 
and, very much in love. As Dunbar and Dillon were en- 
thusiastic over the match, and were both of them not only 
willing but anxious to make up any deficiency in the mat- 
ter of marriage settlements, the match was soon arranged, 
the marriage took place with due solemnity; and Mary 
Dunbar became the countess of Yennor. 

The wedding had taken place at St. George’s, Hanover 
Square ; and, with the greatest difficulty, both Gow and his 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


357 

wife had been induced to be present at it. As luck would 
have it, in leaving the church after the ceremony they had 
met again upon the porch of the church, as they had done 
some seven years ago. Situated as they were, this was 
precisely the thing they had both probably desired to avoid ; 
but fate had ordained it differently. As neither sir Sidney 
nor his wife were moral cowards, they neither of them 
showed the slightest disposition to run away from the en- 
counter, now it had taken place; but, on the contrary, both 
appeared to brace themselves for meeting a disagreeable 
situation with as little show of feeling as possible. 

“Time has dealt kindly with you, I am glad to see, sir 
Sidney,” Kate said, in a voice and manner perfectly suc- 
cessful in concealing her true feeling, whatever it might 
have been. 

“1 thank your ladyship for your kind expression,” said 
Gow, raising his hat most deferentially, “but time has 
utterly failed to do for me the only kindly thing it could 
do; and that is obliterate certain memories of the past.” 

As lady Gow’s carriage now drove up, it released both 
of them from an embarrassing position for her to imme- 
diately enter it and be driven rapidly away; but, it had 
this disadvantage, namely, that it offered no opportunity 
for Gow to explain just what the memories were to which 
he had alluded. We will assume they were those of his own 
shortcomings. At any rate, the poor fellow was left again 
standing on the porch of the church, as he had been before ; 
having somewhat bitterly declined to be present at the wed- 
ding breakfast, or to take any further part in the festivi- 
ties whatever. As he had done on a previous occasion, he 
waited for the last carriage to drive away. It seemed now 
to accord with his savage and despondent mood to spare 
himself none of the bitterness of his isolation. He hugged 
his sorrow to his heart, getting a strange pleasure, doubt- 
less, out of it; as often happens in such instances. He at 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


358 

last sauntered away in the direction of his hotel, where he 
spent the rest of the day entirely alone, brooding over his 
loneliness; a bitter and disappointed man. 

And now, lord Yennor having other matters to look 
after, seldom came to see him; and poor Gow was lonelier 
and more despondent than ever. There were now four 
happy homes, Dunbar’s, Dillon’s, lord Vennor’s and his 
own, from which he was excluded ; or, as to three of which, 
at least, he chose to consider himself excluded. His sav- 
age and unhappy mood appeared to grow upon him; as 
such moods have a way of doing. At times he could hardly 
contain himself; and he felt he must go mad. At others, 
he pitied himself intensely, and assumed an attitude of 
sullen martyrdom. Dunbar and Dillon still continued to 
visit him, but they frequently found him in such a condi- 
tion of mind as to render their visits rather perfunctory 
than otherwise; and gradually began to discontinue them. 
Although well knowing himself to be responsible for this, 
he was unreasonable enough to grumble at it; and to add 
their apparent defection to his already long list of griev- 
ances. 

One evening he was sitting alone in one of his moody 
fits, when a sudden impulse came over him to take one of 
his melancholy and lonely walks to Wandsworth, in the 
hope of seeing his wife’s shadow on the closed window 
shades of his home. A light fog hung over the town as 
he set forth on his walk, but the winter was now verging 
into spring and the heavy fogs had taken their departure 
for the season. He struck out at a brisk pace as the hour 
was getting late, and he feared to miss the pleasure, if 
pleasure it could be called, of finding a light in the window 
of his wife’s apartment if he tarried on the way. He 
reached Eversfield Road in due time, and was rather sur- 
prised to find neither the windows in the lower or the 
upper story lighted. He looked at his watch by the light 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


359 

of the street lamp and found it to be only a little past nine 
o’clock; moreover, he noticed that the windows of the rear 
of the house were still lighted up, thus affording evidence 
of the fact that the servants had not retired for the night. 
Evidently his wife was spending the evening with her 
friends or relations, as she sometimes did, and might be 
returning at any moment. Not wishing her to find him 
in the humiliating position of walking up and down in 
front of his own house from which he was prevented from 
entering in deference to her own wishes, Gow determined 
to return at once to his hotel, and to give up his adven- 
ture for the evening. With this object in view, he turned 
his face towards London and was proceeding along his 
way with a slow and melancholy stride, in keeping with his 
thoughts, when, upon reaching the end of Eversfield Road 
and coming to the common, he became conscious of foot- 
steps behind him. It was a lonely spot and no street 
lamps were in view, so it was impossible to distinguish 
what manner of person was following him. He went on 
for a while, feeling a little apprehensive, but considering 
it the part of wisdom to show no signs of fear, when he 
suddenly heard the person, whoever it was, quicken his 
steps; and in a moment he had received a blow upon the 
back of his head from a bludgeon in the hands of a strong 
man which felled him senseless to the ground. 

Out of a delirious dream, he gradually awoke to con- 
sciousness. He found himself to his intense surprise in a 
luxuriously furnished bedroom, and in a particularly com- 
fortable bed. Nothing in the apartment was familiar to 
him. To be sure, his memory of past events had not yet 
fully returned with the consciousness of his present sur- 
roundings. He was certain he was in a room and in a bed 
he had never been in before ; and that was about as far as 
he could get. As his sensibilities became more acute, he 
thought he heard the sounds of low voices in an adjoining 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


360 

room through a partly opened door. The voices were evi- 
dently those of women. One said: “It was a most fortu- 
nate thing I found him just as I did, for, if left to himself, 
I feel sure he would never have lived through the night. 
It was by the merest chance in the world, however, that we 
saw him. I was returning in a cab from an evening in 
Portland Place, when the horse shied at something lying 
by the side of the road; which, naturally enough, caught 
the attention of the driver. By the light of his cab lamp he 
saw the figure of a man evidently dead or insensible. He 
got down from his seat and finding a gentleman badly in- 
jured by a blow upon his head, told me of it; and between 
us we were able to lift him into the cab and bring him 
here.” 

“And how long ago did this all happen?” asked the 
other voice. 

“Three days.” 

“And has he been unconscious all this time ?” 

“Yes, and may remain so for some days longer; the doc- 
tor says.” 

“But he feels confident of his recovery?” 

“Yes, with care and entire absence of excitement; but 
he was dangerously injured. Concussion of the brain. 
Here the voices ceased, and a light footstep announced the 
approach of one of the women. Gow feigned unconscious- 
ness; but with one eye partly open caught a glimpse of a 
trained nurse in the peculiar costume of her service. As 
the day passed on he spent his time, intervals between fits 
of semi-consciousness or sleep and lucid periods, in a vain 
speculation as to where he was; and as to the identity 
of the other woman. Partly from sheer weakness and 
physical apathy, and partly from a feeling of perfect se- 
curity and comfort which seemed to pervade his senses, 
he refrained from asking any questions, or of in any way 
giving evidence of his return to consciousness. “All in 


PATRICK DUNBAR 361 

good time,” he said to himself. "It’s a pleasant adventure, 
just as it stands ; so let it go at that.” 

The nnrse busied herself about the room, occasionally 
coming to her patient’s bedside and smoothing his pillow, 
giving him medicine, looking to the bandages about his 
head, and performing all the other little offices incident 
to her profession. Gow allowed himself to be waited upon 
with all the delight of a man who for a long time had been 
unfamiliar with feminine attentions of any kind. Then the 
doctor came; and he overheard a long whispered conver- 
sation between him and the two women through the open 
door, as before. From this he learned that he had had a 
very narrow escape from death; and was still by no means 
out of danger. The least sudden excitement might bring 
on a recurrence of the unfavorable symptoms, and all would 
be over with poor Gow. So, the day passed, and the night 
succeeding it, and the next day came, and the patient began 
to feel so much better than he was supposed to be, that he 
set himself to considering the practicability of finding out 
where he was, and a few other things that puzzled him. 
With this object in view he opened his eyes and asked in a 
weak voice, “Nurse, where am I?” 

Her answer was to place her finger on her lips in a 
manner to indicate silence, and then said : “Excuse me, sir, 
but doctor’s orders are for me to allow no talking what- 
ever for a few days yet, and to answer no questions.” 

“But, I’m so much better. You really might tell me 
where I am.” 

“I’m glad you’re better, sir; but I really can’t tell you 
anything at present. Try to get some sleep, and don’t ex- 
cite yourself. You’ve been very ill, and are far from well 
yet. You really must be quiet.” 

All this was said in the kindly but authoritative manner 
of one perfectly accustomed to a sick room and to implicit 
obedience to her doctor’s orders. Gow, finding it difficult 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


362 

to proceed any further just yet upon the line of investiga- 
tion he had taken up, lapsed again into the listless, lux- 
urious feeling of perfect irresponsibility which charac- 
terizes a really sick person; and spent his time in pleas- 
urable expectation as to what turn his adventure would ul- 
timately take. And so matters went on for some days; 
until in fact, the doctor relieved the embargo he had placed 
upon the patient's talking and permitted even himself to be 
questioned. 

“Where am I. Doctor ?" asked Gow. 

“That's a perfectly natural question for you to ask, my 
dear sir; but, unfortunately, there are two reasons why I 
can't answer it." 

“Are you at liberty to state your reasons?" 

“Oh, yes; the first one is you are not strong enough to 
withstand any excitement. The second, I've promised 
not to answer it." 

“Your reasons appear to be good ones, doctor" ; said Gow, 
smiling, “But don't you think the excitement of a refusal 
to gratify a sick man's whim may be quite as serious as 
gratifying it?" 

“Possibly; but then I fall back upon my second reason, 
my promise, you know; which is sacred." 

“Very well, doctor; but I warn you that the effect of sup- 
pressed curiosity on a nature like mine becomes cumulative 
in time and will soon begin to react badly upon me. Barring 
my weakness, I am as fit as I ever was in my life; but I 
shall certainly have a relapse if I am to be kept in this state 
of ungratified curiosity much longer." 

“I'll see what can be done" ; said the doctor, kindly, and 
as this was all that could be got out of him, the matter was 
allowed to drop. 

With returning health and strength, however, and after 
long nights of peaceful and undisturbed sleep, Gow soon 
found himself both mentally and physically in a condition 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


363 

where it would have been absurd to treat him as a really 
sick man any longer. Realizing this, he made up his mind 
to rebel against the discipline he had been subjected to; 
when, upon awakening from a profound sleep one morning, 
he was surprised to find a distinct change in his surround- 
ings. In the first place, the nurse failed to respond to his 
summons, as she had been in the habit of doing, when he 
asked for his breakfast. This was strange; but it was not 
all. The room had been cleaned and garnished, the furni- 
ture moved about in different positions to the ones he had 
seen it in. It appeared to him as if the whole atmosphere, 
moral and physical, of the place had changed, and a new 
regime had been inaugurated. Instead of the nurse being 
on hand to wait upon his wish, whatever it was, before 
he even formulated it in his own mind, there was a little 
night table near his bed with a bell upon it, and on a piece 
of paper under the bell were written the words, “Please 
ring when you want your breakfast.” 

He took the bell and rang it. In due time a servant he 
had never seen before entered the room with a tray upon 
which was his breakfast. She set it down upon the table, 
helped Gow to get himself into a comfortable position to 
eat it, then opened the curtains to let in the light of day; 
a thing which had not been done since Gow had been in the 
place, and, as she was about to go, said: “My mistress 
sends her compliments, and wishes to know whether you 
would care to see her ?” 

“Tell your mistress I shall be delighted to see her at 
once; if entirely convenient.” 

“Yes sir,” replied he maid, as she left the room. 

In a few moments the door opened and Kate entered. 
Although the possibility of his being in his own house had 
entered his mind, Gow was hardly prepared for so unex- 
pected an appearance upon the part of his wife. A sudden 
fullness and oppression in his head overcame him, and he 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


364 

fell back upon his pillow in a fainting fit. However calmly 
Kate had intended to undergo the trying ordeal of meeting 
her husband, under the peculiar circumstances which sur- 
rounded them, the effect they had produced upon her hus- 
band disconcerted all her plans. She rushed to his bedside, 
and with every evidence, not only of intense anxiety, but of 
intense affection, ministered to him. As soon as the pres- 
sure upon the brain seemed to be somewhat relieved, Kate 
became calm again; and quietly seating herself near her 
husband’s bed, waited for him to fully recover himself be- 
fore attempting to speak to him. 

“Are you feeling better, my dear?” she asked, after a 
pause in which each had been evidently hoping for the 
other to break the silence. 

“Yes, Kate ; thanks to your excellent care, I’m quite my- 
self again. But I fear I must have been a great burden 
and trouble to you, dear child, all these long days and 
nights of unconsciousness. How good you have been.” 

And here the tears of weakness and pent up excitement 
came to the sick man’s eyes, which he dashed away with 
an impatient gesture; but which were a thousand times 
more eloquent than any words. A pause ensued in which 
both were undoubtedly going over the memories of the past 
in their minds. Then Gow went on: “I little thought of 
meeting you under conditions like these, dear Kate. You 
have indeed heaped coals of fire upon my head.” 

He was going to ask her how it all had happened; but 
it occurred to him that in the first place he had already 
heard her tell the story of having found him unconscious 
in the street, and, second, that in dwelling upon the sub- 
ject he would inevitably have to explain his own presence 
in that part of the town. So he changed the subject. 

“I shall be well enough to be up and about again soon, 

I hope, Kate; and then I promise to take myself off your 


PATRICK DUNBAR 365 

hands. I am a little weak to be moved yet, I fear; so per- 
haps you will let me remain a little longer.” 

“Yes, my dear; as long as you like.” 

“Kate?” 

“Yes?” 

“Kate, before I go, may I hope for a full forgiveness 
from you for all the wrong I have ever done you? I have 
had it on my heart to ask you this ever since I left you at 
the church door some seven years ago. Kate, I treated you 
abominably, shamefully. I acted the part of a villain and 
a cad. But I have had a long, lonely time in which to think 
it all over; Kate. I have had time in which to bitterly, 
bitterly repent; and in which to learn to respect and to 
love you. As I lie here upon what would have been my 
death-bed but for your tender care of me, I realize more 
than ever my wickedness in the past and the magnitude of 
my loss. I think, Kate, of what your love might have been 
to the man who had known how to keep and to cherish 
such a treasure. I was a fool, and blind, Kate ; and I well 
deserve my punishment. But think of me kindly in the fu- 
ture, my dear ; as I shall always think of you ; lovingly, re- 
gretfully and hopelessly. I know your make-up, Kate; it 
is hard for you to forgive; and you have much to forgive. 
But try, Kate. I shall never trouble you, as you told me 
not to do when we parted at the church door ; but I should 
like to feel that I was forgiven; as I forgive the man who 
struck me down and intended to kill me. I know who it 
was ; but I shall never try to have him punished. He un- 
intentionally did me the greatest service in the world. 
He gave me this chance to speak to you once again, dear 
child; and to beg and implore your forgiveness. Tell me 
that you forgive me, Kate.” 

The effort and excitement of this rambling speech was 
too much for the wounded man; and he fell back again 
into a prolonged swoon. 


PATRICK DUNBAR 


366 

When he recovered consciousness, he found his wife hold- 
ing him in her arms and covering his face with tears and 
kisses. 

“Let us each forgive and forget, dear love” ; she said, 
“and may God forbid that we ever part again until He 
calls us home!’ 


THE END. 









































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